The Violinist's Student
by MulticoloredRosePetals
Summary: !-Story is now getting an alternate ending; i.e., no more epilogue-! Takes place directly after Erik runs from the traveling fair. Erik, a young teenager, trespasses into the home of famous violinist Gustave Daaé, who takes him under his wing as a violin student. Years later, Gustave's daughter Christine arrives from Sweden. Will Erik and Christine be friends? Something more?
1. New Beginnings

**Thank you for taking the time to read my story! I truly appreciate it. Welcome to all of my old and new readers.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 **New Beginnings**

Erik had always been exceptionally thin.

His mother would force feed him for hours, screaming in frustration at him the whole time, all in the hopes that he wouldn't constantly remind her of a corpse - skeletal limbs, no nose, sallow and sunken features. He, however, had never much cared for food. Honestly, he could go three days without food before really becoming hungry. It was never something he needed as much as other people. One of his "special gifts". One of the many "benefits" he had been graced with.

Three days was one thing. Seven days without eating was completely another.

Erik, just hitting puberty, had grasped for kindness and warmth from people but continuously missed. After running from his abusive mother, who had left bruises all over his body, he ended up kidnapped from the streets and sold to a traveling fair. There, his hideous face was put on display, while Erik was trapped in a cage and further beaten by an even more abusive captor.

For four years he endured this treatment, and in this time, he learned to truly despise the world. Men, he learned, were evil. Men would do nothing but hurt him, and women would do nothing but fear him. He was alone. And, he thought in tired acceptance, he always would be.

Finally, when his captor had gone too far, when he'd beaten him blue and Erik had had enough, Erik reached for a nearby rope and wrapped it around his hulking neck and pulled. He tugged until he could feel his own rage pulsating in his ears, until he saw red...and knew he was within an inch of killing him. He let go, heart pounding as he watched his unconscious - but still breathing - captor on the ground. If the man woke up, he couldn't even guess the kind of punishment he would receive. He didn't want to.

He _ran_.

For seven days.

Until he reached Paris.

No one knew him in Paris. And it was filled with music and art and so much _beauty_. But still...where would he _live_? What would he _eat_?

The answer came in the form of a miracle.

After sleeping on the streets and ingesting nothing but water for so long, he began to long for a warm bed and a hot meal. He suddenly wished he could take advantage of the amounts of food his mother had put in front of him.

Dusk began to paint the sky as Erik, growing increasingly lightheaded from lack of nutrition, stopped, suddenly alert.

A sound...the most _beautiful_ sound...was drifting from the window of a first floor apartment, just half a block ahead of him. It was violin music, and by the sound of it, the player was a gifted professional. Even Erik, after studying and obsessing over music as a child, was awestruck by the magic that came from those strings. Transfixed, he drifted to the window, immediately giddy to find it wide open.

He peeked inside to find a brown-haired man inside a green-painted parlor, his back turned to the window, playing the instrument. Even without seeing the expression of the man, he could see, in his stance and movements as he played, the sheer amount of passion and pride he had for his music. The way he swayed and bent...Erik couldn't look away.

Finally, the song ended, and the man sighed wearily, before placing the violin on a stand on the floor. He looked down at the instrument and reached down to stroke its strings a few times - a gesture that Erik found sweet - before standing and walking out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The alluring music...the open window...the apartment! The concept of food inside...it was enough to drive Erik almost crazy with need. He had to get inside of this building that had just touched him in a way he hadn't been touched in so long. He was stealthy; if he was careful enough, he might be able to slip past the man unnoticed, find the kitchen, and steal what he needed. Maybe he could even find a small crevice or a cabinet in the house to sleep in for the night, where the man may never even notice he was there.

He looked around to make sure no one was looking, and then climbed through the window and into the warmth of the apartment, out of the chilling autumn air.

Silent-footed, he crept through the green parlor and, with severe gentleness, turned the knob on the door. He realized with glee that this apartment had a staircase, and that all human noise was coming from upstairs. Now, if he could just make it to the kitchen, grab some bread or an apple, maybe hide under the stairs until morning...

He scanned each successive doorway in the hallway as he passed through. Finally, in the last room in the hallway, he spied the wonderful sight of countertops, a stove, an icebox, and the maddeningly wonderful full loaf of bread sitting by a vase of roses. He slipped inside and beelined for the bread. He reached his long-fingered hand to grab the loaf and -

"Who are you?"

Erik whirled in place, wide-eyed, to find the brown-haired man staring with astonishment at him. The mouth beneath his mustache parted at the sight of the mask on the boy's face, and his eyes became huge brown circles on his face.

Erik's heart began to race in his chest. There were no windows in the kitchen, he realized, and the man was blocking his only exit.

He was trapped.

* * *

Gustave Daaé lived by himself, but he was never truly alone. Not when he had the company of his violin.

The music of that particular instrument had always been there, like a relentlessly loyal friend. At forty years of age, his violin had never once failed him. It did its duty excellently and travelled around with him everywhere he went. Truly, he would have considered his music his most loved and cherished thing...had it not been for his daughter.

His daughter...his little Christine. She had looked just like her mother. The lovely Cathrine Falk. How he had loved her...and dear Lord, how he missed her. How he missed them both.

Years ago, Gustave had been a poor violinist, living in Uppsala, Sweden. Music was one of the few pleasures he had in life, but of course there were other things. Sitting by a warm fire. Watching the sun set over the water. Taking walks at night.

On one particular walk, he found a young woman standing on the edge of a bridge. Seeing her expressionless face, the way she swayed as she looked upon the water...he knew exactly what her intention was. Without hesitation he hurried to her side and pulled her down.

He asked her where she lived, but she hadn't given an answer. Instead, she'd begun to cry. Not knowing what to do, and seeing just how cold and late it was that night, he brought her to his own house to let her rest.

It wasn't long before he realized who she was. After all, everyone knew the beauty of the daughter of the great Judge Falk. The judge had thanked Gustave kindly, if not a bit warily, for caring for his daughter in her time of need. It wasn't long, though, before Cathrine and Gustave fell in love.

Cathrine loved him for the way he made her feel alive. Like she wasn't so alone. His music brought her comfort and happiness, and she would not have traded him for the world.

And Gustave? Gustave loved her for simply _existing_.

A marriage between them was, of course, highly discouraged. As much as the two cared for one another, and as good of friends as they were, there was nothing upon the Earth that would have persuaded Judge Falk to allow his daughter, who had been brought up to be a lady in high class, to marry a penniless musician, who had no prospect of improving his situation. Therefore, naturally, the two eloped directly under the judge's nose.

Judge Falk knew that he had every right to disown his daughter. He knew of her disobedience and her treachery, but he loved her far too much. He would not abandon her simply because she had so foolishly followed her young bleeding heart. He sent Gustave money, and to his surprise, Gustave spent it wisely. He never drank, never went to gentlemen's clubs, never tried to buy a night with another woman. All of his attention, every single coin he earned and was given, was spent making Cathrine as comfortable as he could manage.

And so, very soon, Cathrine announced with pride that they were expecting a baby.

But it wasn't a pleasant pregnancy. Cathrine was often sick, and would complain constantly of aches and pains. When the baby finally did arrive, she was attacked by the bacteria that already lay in her weakened system. Within hours of Christine Daaé's birth, her mother's heart had stopped beating.

Neither Gustave nor the judge could function normally for weeks, and Christine was now being raised by a depressed father. In response, perhaps because he partly blamed Gustave for the death of his daughter, or perhaps because he truly did care for the wellbeing of his granddaughter, Judge Falk used his powerful position to take the child from him and house her in his own home. Gustave protested desperately - little Christine was the very last piece of Cathrine he had left. She was the only _family_ he had left. But the judge insisted that it was for the benefit of the baby. Gustave was poor and would not offer Christine the life she deserved. Her grandfather could do that. It was best this way, he had said. It was for the good of Christine.

Gustave, as if he had a choice in the matter, agreed. At first, he was allowed to visit once every day. In a few months, that turned to once every week. After a couple of years, it turned to once every month. By the time Christine was four, Gustave was not even allowed to see his daughter on Christmas.

In his heartbreak, Gustave fled Sweden and moved to Paris, France. There was no point in staying in Uppsala. The only thing he had there was his daughter, and Heaven knew he would never even be able to look at her face...that face which he knew must be identical to his dear Cathrine's.

In Paris, Gustave worked viciously to master his craft. He would play in the park every day, for hours, until finally news of a wonderfully gifted violinist spread across the city. As his French improved, so did his skill. Soon, he was invited to play in restaurants and bars, at music houses and open stages. His income and fame grew, until, five years after he ran from Sweden, he was playing at events for the most rich and influential names in France.

It was this chilly November day, that Gustave had been trying with considerable difficulty to exact a song he had been attempting to learn. It sounded good, yes, but not _perfect_. And if he was going to be playing at the twelfth birthday party of the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, he knew he had to get it right.

He finished the song and considered playing it one more time, but feeling mentally exhausted, he merely gave a weary sigh and put the violin down, deciding instead to make a quick change to the paper score that sat upstairs in his study.

Gustave had been quick in his revisions, and when he finished he went down to the kitchen to get a glass of wine and relax. He didn't expect to find that someone else was already taking advantage of the room.

"Who are you?" he bellowed in surprise.

The black-haired dirty-clothed boy in the kitchen whirled around...and rather than possessing a face, he possessed a white porcelain mask, which covered all but his chin, lower lip, and eyes. Those eyes, which were mismatched brown and green, widened in obvious fear, and his tall and thin body - the boy was almost as tall as Gustave - froze in place.

For a moment they stared at one another, before the boy, with snake-like speed, snatched a full loaf of bread that lay on the counter and attempted to dodge around Gustave and into the hallway.

But Gustave was quicker.

He caught the boy by the arm and pushed him against the wall of the kitchen, holding his hands against the boy's bony shoulders, cornering him like a jungle predator. He would _not_ be stolen from. Not in his own house.

He knew he shouldn't have left that window open.

At the physical entrapment, he seemed to go absolutely hysterical. He began shaking his head back and forth and darting his eyes from left to right, as if looking for an escape route. His whole body began to quake, and his breath was coming in raggedly. He almost felt sorry for him, had it not been for the bread in his hands.

"Boy!" Gustave barked. "What the _H_ _ell_ do you think you are doing?"

"Please," said the boy, and Gustave was struck by how silky his voice was, even as it shook, "please, sir, you can have your bread back. Take it. Just...please get away from me. Let me go."

Gustave blinked at the fear and sincerity in his tone. He did not move, however, but did feel his expression soften.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Thirteen," the boy responded quickly. "Sir, please..."

"Where are your parents?" Even as he asked it, he already felt he knew.

The boy shook his head. "My mother is...gone. I never knew my father. He died before I was born. Sir! Please!"

He stared at his masked face, and then looked down at his scrawny neck, his skeletal hands... And felt suddenly very sympathetic.

"Are you homeless?" he asked softly. "When's the last time you've eaten?"

"Yes," whispered the boy, "and not for a week."

"A week!" Gustave yelled in shock. At last, he lifted his hands from his shoulder's, to which he seemed to slump in relief. "Dear God, boy! A week? Take that loaf, then, and sit at the table. But by the Lord, you need more than just bread. Finish it while I prepare you something else."

He blinked at Gustave for a couple of moments, as if not understanding his words. He made no motion to sit, and so Gustave gestured to the little table that stood in the center of the kitchen.

"Didn't you hear me, boy?" he said. "Sit there and eat while I cook you something substantial!"

"You..." said the boy hoarsely, "you're going to give me _more_ food?"

"Yes. I can't let you starve, can I?"

The boy tilted his head, suspicion and doubt clear in his eyes. "I just tried to _steal_ from you."

"Yes," exclaimed Gustave, "and for good reason! Now, please do sit at that table. Are you fine with beef and potatoes? I'm afraid I haven't gotten groceries in a while, and that's the most I can offer you."

"Beef and potatoes are fine," the boy said, as if in a daze. He stumbled a bit to the table and sat, and, as if he was afraid to appear gluttonous, began tearing apart the bread bit by bit, putting each piece individually into his mouth in succession.

Gustave worked hurriedly, still amazed at the week-long fast the boy had taken. Perhaps he himself had always had a fondness for food...but still! Even at his poorest and hungriest, the longest he had gone without any kind of meal was four days...and he had never felt weaker.

While he cooked, the boy barely made a sound. If it weren't for the fact that Gustave continuously turned his head to check if he was still eating the bread, he would have wondered if he had simply slipped out of his home.

When he had finished cooking, he extinguished the stove and brought the plate of food to the boy, who looked at him, wide-eyed with gratitude.

"Thank you, sir," he said, and then picked up the fork and knife.

"You're welcome," said Gustave, and took a seat across from him. "Lord knows I remember a time when I was homeless myself. But even then, I could find food. I can't imagine...a week!"

The bread had been devoured at this point, and now the boy was gingerly placing pieces of potato into his mouth, his upper lip blocked by the mask.

Gustave drummed his fingers lightly on the table. "You said you're thirteen?"

The boy nodded.

"I had a daughter. She's a few years younger than you. She would have just turned nine, actually..." Gustave said, and was surprised at his own words. God, he couldn't keep connecting everything to Christine. At some point, he really did have to move on from her. She was gone. He had to remember that.

The boy looked up at him, and Gustave was taken aback to find sorrow in his eyes.

"Had a daughter, sir?" he said softly. "Did something happen to her?"

Gustave shook his head somberly. "No. She's alive; I think at least. I wouldn't know. She doesn't live with me. She lives with her grandfather in Sweden."

The boy nodded empathetically, and then turned his attention back to his meal.

A few minutes passed while the only sound was the boy pulling pieces of potatoes and beef apart with his fork and knife. In the silence, Gustave couldn't help but let his mind start to wonder about the mask. Surely, it was there as a protective measure...but in what way?

"Boy," he said suddenly, "you know, if that mask is meant to shield your identity, you don't have to worry about it any longer. I'm not planning on reporting you. You don't have to hide yourself from me."

The boy stiffened suddenly. It was as if something had taken over him, like a flash of panic, and he looked up at Gustave with terrified eyes.

"Sir," he said, his voice choked in his throat, "please do not ask me to remove my mask. I would like to keep it on. I do not wish to show my face to you."

Gustave stitched his eyebrows. "Why?"

The boy sat completely still, save for one hand whose finger began to twitch. He continued to stare at Gustave with that same irrational horror.

"I think...I think I should go," he whispered suddenly.

Gustave blinked in shocked surprise as he watched the boy get up from the table and walk numbly to the kitchen door. After a few moments, Gustave regained his senses and stood.

"Wait!" he shouted, and the boy stopped in his tracks. "Please wait! Come now, I'm not demanding you to remove your mask. If you don't wish to show me your face, I am certain that there is good reason. Please, son, finish your meal."

At the word "son", the boy whirled around and trained such a timid and astonished expression, that Gustave felt startlingly humbled.

"Son," he repeated, glad at the effect it had on him, "what is your name?"

A few moments passed before the boy said softly, "Erik."

"Erik," Gustave said, "Erik what?

He hesitated. "Erik Beauchene."

Gustave smiled kindly, and the boy blinked in response, "Well, Erik Beauchene, my name is Gustave Daaé. Now, why don't you finish your meal, and then we can consider you leaving?"

Erik nodded dumbly and sat back at his seat, digging gingerly once more into the plate.

"Thank you, sir," he said, his voice barely audible.

Gustave sighed and leaned back into his chair.

Erik cleared his throat. "Sir, I heard you playing your violin before I..." He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat again. "You play violin extremely well."

Gustave chuckled warmly. "Thank you, Erik. Do you enjoy music?"

"Oh, yes," he said, and Gustave was pleased to see that a small bit of happy confidence was taking hold of him. "Music is my favorite thing in the world, sir."

"Do you play the violin?"

"I do!" Erik said with excitement, and then seemed to retreat a bit back into himself. "Though, sir, nowhere near your level of skill, I'm certain."

With that, an idea took form in Gustave's head. At first, it seemed a bit insane...but then, the more he considered it, the more he thought...why not?

"Erik," he said, and leaned toward him, "son, if I ask you to go grab the violin from the parlor, could I perhaps hear you play something for me?"

"Yes, sir," Erik said without hesitation, and practically ran into the parlor. Within seconds, he had brought the violin out, and was holding it with all the expertise of an aged musician. "Is there a song you would like to hear in particular?"

"No," Gustave said. "Surprise me."

Erik nodded, and then began moving the bow across the strings, his eyes closed in enraptured focus. And as soon as the music started...Lord! The boy's playing was amazing! He could have sat there listening to it for hours. It was better than even some professionals. Still, some of his techniques could have used improvements. Although he was already fairly skilled, he could stand to learn a few things.

"That's enough, Erik," Gustave said kindly after a few minutes, and Erik obediently ceased. "Thank you...you are a gifted musician."

Erik bowed his head in humility. "Thank you, sir. So are you."

There were a few moments of silence, while Gustave drummed his fingers against the table again, before finally speaking. "Son, have you ever considered learning how to play professionally?"

Erik stared at him in confusion. "Sir?"

"I am asking because...well, I have much to teach, and you appear quite teach _able_. You're _already_ good...but I would be very honored to help you hone your skills. You could become a famous violinist one day if you let me teach you."

Erik blinked, letting his arms fall to his side, still holding on to the violin and the bow. "You wish to take me on as your student? Why?"

Gustave shrugged. "I think you have promise and passion. Erik," he said, and stood. Erik backed up a step as if on instinct, and Gustave smiled reassuringly. "You have no home, and I would be selfish if I had an opportunity to help you and didn't. This apartment is far too big for just one person to live in. I have two extra bedrooms upstairs, but no servants and no guests. You may take one of them if you would like."

Erik was a breathless statue. "Do you mean this?" he whispered.

"I wouldn't be offering if I didn't." He smiled again. "If you accept, and continue to prove to be talented, I will take gladly you under my wing and help you excel. Are you interested?"

There were a few moments of silence, while Erik stood looking stunned at Gustave, like a poor child being offered a mountain of gold. Finally, he bowed his head and whispered, "Yes."

* * *

 **What do you think? Do you like the idea? Please let me know in reviews!**


	2. Friend and Family

**Enjoy _chapitre deux_!**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

 **Friend and Family**

 _Eight Years Later_

"Erik...he is twice your age!"

"Yes, I know, sir."

"So, please, show him a little respect!"

Erik sighed. "He has not _earned_ my respect. You are the only one who has managed that task, sir."

Gustave crossed his arms. He had tried getting Erik to stop calling him "sir" - he hadn't been his actual teacher for a few years now, so he didn't see there to be any need.

* * *

When Erik had been eighteen, Gustave had been astonished to find that he had gained complete proficiency in the violin. In just five years, Erik had learned what had taken Gustave his entire life. The two were practically on the same level.

He had come to Erik, who stood playing a song he had written himself, with immense pride. The boy was like a son to him - like the child he never got to raise - and he was glad that he had been able to help him in his life. To give him a bed, food, company, and music. For the first time, he felt like a father.

As he finished the song, he turned and saw Gustave smiling at him, clapping gently, and he made a small bow in appreciation.

"I believe I have taught you everything you could possibly learn," Gustave had said. "I don't think I can call you my student anymore, Erik, as you've completely mastered your instrument. You've done very well, my boy. I could not be prouder."

Erik stared at him, and if Gustave were not mistaken, a small bit of sadness grew in his eyes. He made a little bow again.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Gustave nodded, and started to turn away to attend to his own composition.

"Sir?" Erik said, and Gustave turned back around and looked at him expectantly.

"Yes?" he said.

"How soon do you want my things packed?"

Gustave blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Erik looked down. Even with the mask, Gustave could tell that he was struggling to keep his eyes from showing emotion. The boy always wore the mask - both the real one and the emotional one - and he had never once taken either off before him. And Gustave respected his privacy. He believed he would never see Erik's face or know his past - though he suspected that both showed horrors. It was not his business what Erik looked like or what he had been through, and truly, he doubted that it would make a difference if he was privy to these things.

And that was fine. He wanted Erik's trust, and pressuring him to reveal his secrets to him would result in anything but that.

"I assume you want me gone," Erik said, still looking down, "now that you've finished teaching me."

Gustave was taken aback. He couldn't remember doing anything to make Erik suspect that he might want him to go. And the fact that he was now finished teaching him meant nothing. Erik was not some project to be finished and then thrown away. Did he _want_ to go, or did he actually think Gustave would just evict him like an overstayed guest?

"I'm not asking you to leave," Gustave said, "but you can go, if that's what you really want."

Erik looked up at him, and there was a small bit of guarded optimism in his mismatched eyes. "I can stay, sir?" he asked, his voice sounding as if he were half-expecting to be scolded for the question.

"Of course you can!" Gustave said. "Erik, I'm astonished that you should even have to ask."

Gustave could see his eyes brighten, as if his words had been a lit match. "For how long?" he asked.

Gustave smiled. "Indefinitely, if you wish."

Erik almost dropped the violin, and he had to put a foot behind him to keep from swaying. "You would let me stay here...forever?"

Gustave's smile grew, and he shrugged. "If you desire it. I do enjoy your company greatly, Erik. It will seem lacking without you here...but, of course, if you should choose to leave, I would understand completely and see you off with warm regards."

Erik opened is mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Do you... _want_ me to stay?" His voice seemed to be floating above thin ice.

Gustave sighed. Even now, Erik questioned his fatherly love for him. It seemed as if it hadn't even crossed his mind that he should see him as anything but a student. "Of course I do. Do _you_ want to stay?"

The breath hitched in Erik's throat. "I would...very much like that, yes." Then, as if he'd remembered his manners, he added, "Sir."

Gustave clapped his hands together. "Good! And if you are to stay, no more of this 'sir' business. It was appropriate when you were my student, but now you are, essentially, my friend. My housemate. Friends don't call other friends 'sir'."

Erik blinked. "If you don't mind, I should still like to call you 'sir'."

Gustave sighed, but felt the corners of his lips tug at the show of devotion. "If you want to, my boy." He paused. "Erik?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You _have_ been like a son to me. You know that, don't you?"

Erik's eyes were suddenly filled with intense emotion. It was a mixture of joy and gratefulness, and Gustave was struck with the thought that no matter how many times he showed pride or affection, Erik would never be used to it.

Water welled in the corners of Erik's eyes and he bowed once again, deeper than before. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

Now, at twenty-one, Erik had felt that he had gained a bit more confidence than he had those three years ago. He was forever respectful and obedient to Gustave - that, he was certain, would never change; the man had beyond deserved it - but to everyone else, he was no longer the scared boy he'd once been. He knew that he had an incredible talent for music. He knew that he could master, and had mastered, a great many other things. In fact, there was practically nothing Erik couldn't learn.

If it were not for his wretched appearance, he could have been a praised and loved musician with a multitude of friends...a family...a wife.

But that would never be.

After Gustave had claimed that he was no longer in need of teaching, he mentioned that Erik should perhaps find some work in the music industry. He positively refused to be a performer - being gawked at by crowds was something he had experienced in childhood and refused to ever experience again - and so Gustave mentioned becoming a teacher.

Erik had initially wanted to refuse, and then he paused. There was no reason he couldn't give private lessons. Gustave could refer people to him, and with his talent, he could easily bring in a sizable sum of money. He could teach the wealthy and influential, perhaps even earn a bit of fame, while never even having to leave his home!

It was the dream.

When Gustave had brought in his first student, however, he had turned her away.

She was a girl, and and a very pretty one at that. She had been Erik's age, with beautiful red ringlets of hair and freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. When she looked at Erik, eyeing his tall skeletal form and white mask, she had shown nothing but wariness and distrust.

Erik immediately refused to teach her, and begged Gustave to bring no more female clients. Only men.

Rejection from men was one thing, but rejection from women, with their beauty and grace and innocence that he admired and loved so much, was very much another. He was not equipped emotionally to deal with it.

But men were _so goddamn infuriating._

They were pompous fools, all of them. They had no discipline or humility. They thought they knew more than Erik did half the time, simply because Erik was younger or from a lower social status than their aristocratic, wealthy, middle-aged selves.

One particular day, Erik had gotten so frustrated with a student that the student ended up quitting.

He had walked in with an air of entitlement, and Erik had to keep from groaning at the very sight of him. He had taken one look at Erik and grunted, his fat gut moving at the sound.

"My, my," he had chuckled, "you've certainly got an odd fashion sense, haven't you?"

Well. At least it was more polite than outright pointing _out_ the mask.

At first, the man - Monsieur Bayard had been his name - was relatively tolerable. Erik had even found his reason for seeking out a lesson to be endearing. Apparently, his wife's birthday was in a few months, and he wanted to learn to play a simple tune on the violin to present to her as a gift.

Within the first few weeks, however, Erik felt his temper begin to wane dangerously thin.

The man was a complete idiot. He took everything far too personally; even when Erik gave the gentlest of criticisms, Bayard lashed out with unreasonable anger.

"Your posture is not quite right, Monsieur," he had said. "You must keep your back straight."

"Oh?" Bayard had responded hotly. "And what, end up looking like you? You great ghostly freak. What with your tall and _straight_ posture. I bet that posture keeps you from bending over the table to eat; that's why you're so thin. I've got a spine condition in my family, you know. A curved spine. You are being _discriminatory_! Any more of this, and I want a refund."

And Erik, his rapidly growing headache making a potential fight seem like an enticing but positively _bad_ idea, shut his mouth and tolerated Bayard. Just barely.

Of course, the afternoon came that Erik had simply had enough.

The man was playing a very simple song that Erik had taught him, consisting of only three easy staffs, and yet he seemed to miss the third note every time at the beginning of the song.

"Monsieur, _no_ ," he said. "I told you, your finger is in the wrong place. If you want to get this right, you must remember-"

"Oh!" Bayard retorted in a yell, his impatience for Erik turning his face into a scowl, "and you are such the _genius_ , are you?" He threw the violin onto the couch of the parlor.

Erik looked from the violin to his incompetent student, his eyebrows raised. "I like to think so," he responded coolly.

Bayard flung his head back and let out an uproarious laugh, and Erik felt his cheeks heat underneath the mask. His hands were balling into fists, and he felt his jaw clench uncontrollably.

"A genius?" Bayard chortled. "You? I doubt it very much!"

"I am more genius than you, Monsieur, that I _do not_ doubt."

It was Bayard's turn to go red in the face. He stared at him with growing rage, and Erik could practically see his blood pressure rising. Erik smiled slightly at the rise he had gotten, and this only made Bayard's face go redder.

"How dare you speak to me that way?" he said. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

"An imbecile who _cannot_ even understand even the most _basic_ music?"

Bayard gaped. "The nerve of you! How...how dare you? If you are such a genius, why have I _not_ understood even the most basic music? Surely my lack of understanding is a direct reflection of your poor teaching abilities!"

"Well," Erik said darkly, "even the most accomplished sculptor can do so much with faulty clay."

"Faul...faulty..." Bayard stammered. He looked like an enraged pufferfish as he stared at him. "I will have you know that I am a very influential politician. And you sir, are rapidly losing an important client. Take your words back immediately, or I shall walk out the door without another word."

"You mean to say you're _capable_ of shutting up?"

"Ah!" the man exclaimed, looking absolutely mortified. "Well, you can assure yourself that you have lost my money, as well as the money of countless other potential buyers, as I will be sure to tell all about you to all of my friends! Good day sir... No, I take that back! I hope you have a positively _terrible_ day!"

And with that, he picked up his violin and his coat, placed his hat upon his head, and exited the apartment.

* * *

"You really should apologize," Gustave said.

The incident with Bayard had happened the day before, and the man had accosted Gustave on the street, proclaiming he would never take a recommendation from him again. Knowing Erik's dislike for people, he hardly had to guess what had occurred. And so he requested to sit down for tea with Erik and consult him on his behavior as a teacher of music.

"There is no reason for me to apologize," Erik said with a shrug. "Sir, the man was beyond rude. He was absolutely unbearable and asinine."

"Still, Erik, you have to show a little more patience if you want to be successful!"

Erik sighed. "You would not have shown patience with me, sir, if I lacked humbleness and respect as a student."

"Yes, but Erik, you _never_ lacked humbleness and humility toward me. Not even now, and you are no longer my student."

"Precisely," he said. "I knew those qualities to be important in a pupil then, and I know them to be important today. Sir, with all due respect, I won't accept anything less from my clients."

Gustave inhaled deeply and shook his head. "I suppose there is no changing your mind. All right. Conduct your affairs however you like, no matter how much I disagree with your methods. It's your business, after all. You're just lucky, this time, that that Bayard fellow is well known to have nearly no influence in high-standing circles. The man is disliked by nearly everyone he knows; he just doesn't realize it. Now," he said, getting up from the couch, leaving his tea practically untouched, "I'm going to go fetch the mail. I keep forgetting to bring it in. I think the the mailman is becoming annoyed with me." He snorted lightly.

"I could bring in the mail in the future, if you wish," Erik said, getting up as well. Gustave gestured for him to sit back down, and he did so obediently.

"No, no," he said, "there's no need. Besides, the mail is usually...well..." He faltered, trying to find a kind way of saying it.

"It's for you," Erik finished. "I know, sir. I would be surprised to receive a personal letter."

Gustave nodded shortly, sadly. Erik said it with such acceptance, as if he stating that it would be an unfortunately cloudy day. Gustave felt himself give a sigh.

"Yes, well," he said, "carry on, my boy." He shuffled a bit, wanting to find a change of topic before leaving for outside. "You told me that you are working on Bach's violin concerto in A minor, didn't you?"

"Yes," Erik said, alertness gripping him suddenly. "I haven't worked on it in several days. That fool Bayard has eaten up so much time. If you will excuse me, sir..."

He got up and gave a low and respectful nod to Gustave. Gustave nodded back, and Erik climbed the steps and out of sight.

Erik, he thought, had started practicing the concerto four days ago, and the next day he had all but mastered it. To think that he had once been homeless...so much talent! Whoever had hurt him as a child hadn't appreciated the pure genius inside of him. And, surely, someone _had_ hurt him. Gustave and Erik both knew that working as a music teacher was beneficial to him, for without it, he would practically be putting his skills to waste. And, as he had essentially never left the house since he began living there, teaching to others was the only time he ever interacted with _anyone_ other than Gustave. But Gustave saw, whenever a new client came to learn from Erik, his guarded stance and anxious glances. He could see the cruelty that society had inflicted, no doubt for whatever was under the mask.

Giving a sigh, he turned and walked out into the chilly afternoon air. He made his way to the side of his apartment and opened up the small metal box on the side of the house, bringing the contents out. A local newsletter. A letter of praise from a small theatre he had performed at.

A letter from Uppsala, Sweden.

His heart nearly stopped, and he almost dropped the letter from his suddenly numb hands. It took a moment for the sending address to register. And, when it did, he ripped the envelope open and devoured the words, all of which were written neatly in Swedish:

 _Dear Gustave Daaé,_

 _My name is Ansgar Blom. I am a high-ranking lawyer and a very close friend of your father-in-law, Judge Falk. As you very well know, he has been the loving and caring guardian to your daughter, Christine. I would like to report to you that she has grown into a very beautiful and intelligent young woman, not unlike her late mother._

 _I am, however, also the bearer of bad news. Judge Falk had taken ill a few months ago, and has recently passed - may God rest his soul. Christine, the poor girl, is prostrate with terrible grief, and is in need of a new guardian at once. You are her closest kin, and I hope that you would accept her into your life as a gift and treasure, to be a father to her after so many years of separation._

 _I am sending you this as a forewarning that we are currently on our way to Paris, even as this letter reaches your hands. To refuse her into your home now is to refuse your flesh and blood, and in the case that you do refuse, I shall take guardianship of her at once, returning her to Sweden. However, I can assure you that this would be most inconvenient to her, as she will be exhausted from travel and will desire nothing more than a father's love._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Ansgar Blom_


	3. L'Oiseau Dormir

**Chapter 3**

 **L'Oiseau Dormir**

It was nightfall when the stagecoach finally pulled up to the Parisian hotel, _L'Oiseau Dormir._ Christine had pulled the curtain of the window to the side, and was leaning her elbow out, relishing the cool breeze that was making its way inside. She sighed heavily. As comforting as the air was, it wasn't enough to quell the anger and despair that was eating at her heart.

Her grandfather's death had been so terribly sudden. And the news that she was to move across the continent of Europe made none of it easier.

The coachman halted his horses perhaps a bit too abruptly, and the wagon jolted forward, making Christine have to plant her feet and grip the sill of the window to keep from lurching. She blew away a few strands of blonde hair that had fallen into her face. Ansgar, her grandfather's friend, who had been her chaperone in the journey from Sweden to France, gave a gasp and opened his eyes. He had been sleeping soundly on the bench across from her, and now looked completely perturbed to be woken up.

Christine had never understood how people could fall asleep sitting up, especially in such uncomfortable seats, but he had managed.

"Ah," he said, and moved to the window. He examined the surrounding streets, a streetlamp lighting up the damp cobblestone. "It seems we've arrived, yes?"

"L'Oiseau Dormir," Christine murmured, looking at the sign on the building. "Is that where we're staying?"

He turned his eyes to her, and his brow furrowed. "The Sleeping Bird," he said. His mustache tilted as he scrunched his lips. "That's the name of our hotel. Is that what that says?"

She nodded.

He sighed. "Well, it's good thing you studied French, isn't it? Lord knows we would never be able to get around this city otherwise. I should probably take on another language as well. Swedish is wonderful, but apparently only useful _in_ Sweden."

He opened the door of the stagecoach, and Christine followed. The coachman was already working on bringing their luggage down onto the street.

"Well, Ansgar," she said, " _most_ languages are only useful in their native country. I only studied French because I think it's beautiful, and my grandfather thought a language - any language - would be good for my education. I never expected to actually _travel_ here. Much less live here..."

The mention of her grandfather, as well as the reminder that she was, in fact, moving far away from home, brought about a tangible tension. Ansgar cleared his throat.

"Yes. Well. It certainly will come in handy." He nodded curtly, and paid the coachman. He picked up his bag and the larger one of hers, making his way toward the hotel.

She sighed. She had been trying to keep calm about the whole situation, and believed fully that she was doing an excellent job. She knew how uncomfortable emotions - specifically _female_ emotions - made Ansgar feel, so she had not cried or sulked once.

At least not in his presence.

Christine tried, truly tried, to keep her chin up around him and behave as though she was "happy that he was in a better place, at least". But it was hard. It exhausted her.

How _was_ she supposed to act?

Wasn't she _supposed_ to be happy that she was finally meeting her father?

But how _could_ she be?

Her grandfather had always told her how her father had stolen her mother from him. How he impregnated her, and when she died, how he left Christine in her grandfather's hands, preferring a life of free bachelorhood over the life of a single father. He had even gone so far as to travel to France in order to escape.

Why should she be happy to see a man who abandoned her? Why should he be allowed to have her in his life _now_? And _how_ could she possibly see this man as a father?

And what happened if they got to his house and he _didn't_ want her? After all, they left for France shortly after sending the letter informing him they were coming. They were long gone by the time her father would have even opened the letter.

She supposed, if he turned her away, there was always Ansgar to take care of her.

But...as much as Ansgar vowed that, if worse came to worst, he would lovingly accept Christine into his home, she knew the thought of it made him uncomfortable. She suspected that he had offered out of a gentleman's duty. He was a very solitary creature, and she had seen people come into and out of his life for as long as she'd known him. He moved from woman to woman, never quite courting them but never quite _not_. Certainly never marrying them. The only person she had seen him keep around long-term was her grandfather, and that was only because they often discussed law practices and case theories in the libraries together. In fact, the more that she considered it, the more it seemed to be a friendship of convenience.

Had it not been for the public's critical eye, she was certain he would have dropped her like coal. It would have done a number on his popularity and good name to not even bat an eyelid to the wellbeing of the granddaughter of his best friend.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up the small bag still on the cobblestones and followed Ansgar into the hotel.

It was a beautiful space. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and candelabras lined the walls, driving out any darkness that might have seeped in from the night atmosphere. The walls were white, and the marble floor was covered in an oriental rug.

When the coachman suggested this place to them, he hadn't detailed how expensive it was, but Christine also hadn't bothered asking. Her grandfather had left his fortune to her, and so she doubted that money would be much of an issue.

Besides, this was exactly the kind of place he would have picked to stay, anyway.

The thought of it made her glad to be here.

Christine found Ansgar waiting in line behind a young red-haired couple. She joined him and dropped the small bag at her feet.

While they stood in silence, the two people in front of them chatted merrily with the attendant.

"Bonsoir!" said the man in French, "do you have any rooms available for the night?"

"We do, Monsieur. One-bedroom or suite style?"

The man and woman looked at one another, and they both smiled and blushed. "One bedroom, please." The man sounded positively giddy. Christine couldn't help the corner of her mouth from twitching.

"It's our honeymoon, you see." The woman beamed.

The attendant grinned, penciling into his log book. "I see."

"We are so excited," said the man. He took his wife's hand. "We've been in love for so long. It's so wonderful to finally be able to truly be, well, _together_."

"Oh, yes!" said the woman. She was looking at her husband with so much love that Christine felt almost rude for staring. "I couldn't imagine my life without him."

"That's wonderful, Madame," said the attendant, putting down the pencil. He nodded. "I'm very happy for you both."

"Lord," Ansgar grumbled, "what is taking these two so long?"

Christine looked at him. "We've been in line barely a minute."

"They should request the room, get the key, and be done. No need for this chit-chat. What are they saying?"

"They just got married. They're celebrating their honeymoon."

"Well, there's no reason to share it to the world. They can celebrate on their own time."

She looked away from him, back toward the couple, who were now getting their key. The husband took it, and the wife giggled as he pulled her away and toward the stairs in the hallway. "I think it's nice," she said, but Ansgar ignored the comment. Instead, he nodded toward Christine to speak to the attendant.

"Bonsoir," she said.

"Bonsoir," he responded, his eyebrows raising. "Is that a Swedish accent I hear?"

Christine nodded. "You speak Swedish?"

"No," he said, "but my aunt lives in Sweden. Are you visiting?"

"I'm moving to Paris, actually," Christine said, "but we are staying here just for the night, if you have any more rooms available."

He looked down at the logbook, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Hm, well we have one more room available. But I'm afraid it's a suite-style room, so it's a tad more expensive. Is your husband all right with that?"

"Husband? Oh! He-" Christine glanced at Ansgar, who was waiting patiently next to her. She blushed at looked at the attendant. "Oh, he isn't my husband."

"Ah. My apologies, Mademoiselle. Will a suite-style be fine for your...for the gentleman you're with?"

Christine turned to Ansgar and asked. At his consent, she smiled at the attendant. "Yes, it will do."

"Very well. Your room is the first floor, number 11. Please, make yourself at home and enjoy your stay here at _L'Oiseau Dormir."_

Ansgar took the key from the attendant, nodding to him.

"Merci," Christine said, and, as they both picked up their things, she followed Ansgar toward the hallway on the left.

Ansgar unlocked the door marked 11, and they made their way inside.

It was very dark, but the moon that streaked in from the window allowed for some sight. The lounge was set up with a fireplace on the other side of the room, with two sofas facing it, a desk near the window. Like the lobby, a chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, but she doubted it was functional.

Ansgar dropped the bags and strode to one of the side tables near a sofa. He opened the drawer and began digging through it. "There's got to be a match in here somewhere...Ah! Here we are!"

In the dark, she watched as he struck the match and lit the candle that sat on the side table. He went to the desk and lit the candle that sat on that as well.

Now that she had a better look at the place, she noticed just how homey it was. A globe stood on the left side of the desk, and a small bust stood above the fireplace on the mantle. Next to the fireplace was a bookshelf, stacked with volumes, all numbered one to twenty - most likely to catch thieves. In the candlelight, the chandelier glimmered marvelously.

Ansgar, who had just inspected the two rooms on either side of the lounge, rubbed his hands together. "Right," he said. He picked up his luggage. "Your bag is right here, of course. Do you have a preference for the room you sleep in? They're identical."

"You can have whichever one you want, Ansgar. I don't have a preference."

He nodded. Gripping his suitcase in one hand, he strolled to the room on the right. He went inside for a moment, most likely to put his bag on the bed, and then came out once more.

"Goodnight, Christine."

Christine wanted to sigh. They had travelled across Europe together, and yet he remained so incredibly formal. No "sweet dreams". No "have a pleasant night". No "I will see you in the morning". Not even a smile.

"Goodnight Ansgar." She paused. "I'll be up for a little while longer. Pleasant dreams."

He gave a little bow of his head, and turned back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Oh well.

Christine picked up her two bags and put them by her bedroom door. Then, she made her way to the bookshelf and plucked the book with the 1 labelled on it.

Reading always helped to take her mind off of things. Surely this time was no different.

She brought the book to the sofa and took a seat. She opened it, not even bothering to read the title - titles, she always thought, gave away some of the plot, and that was no fun.

Her grandfather always made fun of her for it. It was one of her "little Christine quirks", as he would say. Despite his teasing, however, he always made sure to play along. He would buy her books, but hide their cover and title in brown paper. That way, there was no way she would be able to accidentally see a "spoiler".

Her grandfather would always do little things like that. Just for her. Just to make her happy.

When he had gotten sick, Christine wondered if that love would soon be gone forever. If _he_ would soon be gone forever.

Then he started to get better.

And then he got much, much worse.

They had been laughing and talking one night, and the next morning the servants informed her that he hadn't woken up. When the doctor told her what happened to him, she heard him, but was distracted by the pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears.

Blue in the face.

Most likely suffocation. Lungs not working properly.

Blood on the pillows.

It was too much.

Just like that, her life was over as she knew it...

Christine shook her head, realizing she had spent the past ten minutes reading the same first sentence. With deep sigh, she closed the book. No point in trying to distract herself by reading if it clearly wasn't doing its job.


	4. Tentative Introduction

**Chapter 4**

 **Tentative Introduction**

Gustave had no idea how to tell Erik of the coming of his daughter.

It had been two weeks since the letter arrived, and every time he made a motion to break the news to him, he felt cowardice overcome him. The thought of a strange young woman in the house was surely going to make Erik nervous. And, if she looked anything like her mother, she was sure to be beautiful. The boy would feel intimidated, afraid to show himself in her presence.

Whatever was behind the mask, it had conditioned him to expect the worst from people. And rejection and derision from beautiful people had to be heartbreaking for someone like him, who valued beauty more than anything else.

If he told him that she was coming, he expected that he might pack his things and go before he could face his fear, and there was no way in Hell Gustave wanted that. He thought it would be better to explain and apologize once the whole affair took place.

The two of them were sitting in the parlor, Gustave attempting to read a book and Erik attempting write his own small violin composition. Every so often, Gustave would sigh and fidget, realizing he'd been re-reading the same sentence five times. Or he would stare at the wall ahead of him for a full five minutes before returning to his novel. Erik, who had given up asking him what was wrong since the letter arrived, would look up at him with concern. He would shake his head and shift at the desk where he sat writing, and then go back to focus on his work.

Gustave almost felt guilty. His distraction was becoming contagious.

It was when he had finished a page of his book without actually absorbing any of it that a sharp knock came at the front door.

Erik looked casually around, not phased at all by the noise. He only seemed the slightest bit jumpy when he looked over and saw Gustave's frozen form on the sofa.

"Sir," he said calmly, but Gustave could see the wariness in his masked expression, "are you expecting someone at the door?"

Heart beating loudly, he closed the book and set it on the seat beside him. He cleared his throat. "Could be someone requesting lessons from you. Or a performance from me."

And, as much as he wanted to meet his daughter, a deeper part of him hoped that this was true. He had no idea what she would be like. What she would think of him. How her arrival would affect the small sanctuary that Erik and himself had built for themselves.

Erik nodded and then turned back to his work.

Gustave rose and, smoothing out his attire, he straightened and walked to the front door with a façade of confidence. He took a deep breath. Not bothering to look through the door's peephole, for fear that it would influence his decision to greet his guest, he turned the knob and pulled it open.

It wasn't a client.

The young woman standing in front of him looked so much like Cathrine, her appearance sent a stabbing pain through Gustave's very soul. The same blue eyes the color of the early evening sky and golden hair. The same rosebud lips, softly curved nose, and the same high cheekbones under pale skin. The only thing that differed was her mass of curls, as opposed to Cathrine's silky strands.

Gustave couldn't help but think of how his own hair held the same thick texture as the girl's in front of him.

Behind her stood a tall man with light-colored hair and a mustache. His hands were behind his back, and his eyebrows rose as he looked down at Gustave. Gustave could practically smell the pretentiousness on him.

Where the man looked unnecessarily borderline disgusted and annoyed, the girl looked as though she were sad and scared, while also feeling nothing at all. Like her emotions were painted a dull blue, and she was covering them with a canvas, not wanting anyone to know that they weren't painted with more vibrant colors.

It was the same expression Cathrine had held when he took her down from the edge of the bridge.

Gustave noticed for a moment that both the man and the girl were holding luggage bags, and an elegant stagecoach was waiting behind them on the street. His eyes didn't linger on these details for long, however, as he couldn't stop staring at the girl who was an almost perfect resemblance of his late wife.

"Ahem," said the man loudly. Gustave whipped his eyes from the girl to him. "Pardon the intrusion, but do you happen to be Gustave Daaé?"

With a jolt, he realized the words were spoken in Swedish. Quite a long time since he had held a conversation in his native tongue. Thirteen years, in fact…

"I am," he said back in the same language. He felt his pulse even in his hands. "What is it that you need, sir?"

The man nodded, but ignored the question. "I take your word for it. You're the first man I've met to understand my language; and not only that, but speak it like you've spoken it your entire life." His eyes studied the doorframe. "And this _is_ the address I was given. I had doubts that this was the right apartment, you see. I didn't expect you to live in such a… _place_."

Gustave's eyebrows stitched.

The man looked back at him. "My name is Ansgar Blom. I trust my letter arrived to you?"

Gustave stared at the girl. She was studying her feet now, breathing fairly deeply, as if looking at him was a terrible alternative.

So this _was_ Christine.

He nodded.

"Very good," said Ansgar. "Do you have the letter still?"

Gustave looked back at him. "Yes," he whispered. "I do."

"I'd like it, please." He smiled coldly. "Just to be sure."

"Of course," Gustave said. "Give me a moment, if you would."

The man nodded, and Gustave, giving one last long glance at Christine, closed the door and hurried into the parlor. When he arrived, he found Erik staring at him curiously.

"Erik," he said, "I need something from inside the desk. Stand, could you, my boy? Just for a moment."

Erik nodded and stood, pushing the chair back and moving out of the way. Gustave quickly opened the drawer on the farthest left of the desk and retrieved the open envelope from inside, checking quickly to make sure that the letter was still within it. Confirming that it was, he pushed the drawer closed and began to stride back to the front door.

"Sir?"

Gustave stopped and turned to look back at Erik, who hadn't moved from where he stood. The boy was giving him an odd, suspicious expression.

"Yes, Erik?"

"Was that Swedish that you were speaking?"

Gustave blinked in surprise, and then sighed. He knew the boy had incredible hearing, and was rather notorious for indulging in his inquisitiveness; he shouldn't have been surprised that he'd listened to the conversation.

And he truly wasn't surprised, either, that he'd identified the language. Not just because Gustave had told Erik he was Swedish, but because Erik spent long hours in his room studying science, math, architecture, languages, and every subject in between. It wouldn't have phased him if he'd picked up Swedish along the way.

"Yes. I'll explain later," Gustave said tiredly. He smiled weakly, and waited for Erik to return the expression, but Erik's eyes never wavered in their concern.

"Are you in some kind of...trouble, sir?" he asked softly.

Gustave paused for a moment, genuinely thinking about the question. It wouldn't be a lie if he said no, but he certainly _felt_ as though he were in danger. He gave a short, breathy laugh. "I am not sure."

With that, he turned away and walked back to the front door. He opened it to find Ansgar and Christine still standing there, the same expressions plastered on their faces as if they were pale statues.

He held out the letter to Ansgar, who took it with a nod. He unfolded it and examined the contents and, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he gave a diplomatic smile and bowed ever so slightly.

"Very well, then," he said. "Christine is your daughter, and I trust that you will be accepting her with warm arms into your home?"

Christine glanced up at Gustave for a moment before looking back down at her feet.

"Of course I will," Gustave said.

"Good. Farewell, Gustave Daaé." He dropped one of the bags he carried, which must have belonged to Christine, and turned to her. "And farewell to you, as well, Christine."

He bowed a bit lower this time, and then turned, walking toward the stagecoach. At this abrupt goodbye, Christine stood up straight and turned to Ansgar. She stared at him with considerable surprise as he reached the coach, and then blinked and ran after him, dropping her bag as well.

"Ansgar!" she exclaimed.

He turned to her as she came up to him, eyebrows raised. "Yes?" he said.

"We should…we should have a proper goodbye, shouldn't we?" Her voice was heavy.

"How do you mean?"

"We should embrace?"

A look of annoyance crossed his expression. "Miss Daaé, I…"

"Please?" Desperation clung to her features. "Please, I have no idea when I will see again…if I _will_ ever see you again…"

Ansgar stared at her, before looking first at the coach and then at Gustave, and finally back at her. He closed his eyes, clearly debating whether of not embracing her was something he should, or even wanted to, do. At last, he opened his eyes and gave her a paltry smile.

"Of course," he said, and put his own bag aside. He placed a hand on her back and another on her head in the weakest hug Gustave had ever seen. Meanwhile, Christine wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him, as if wanting to extract the companionship right out of him and keep it with her even after he left.

After only a few seconds of this, he patted her head, clearly uncomfortable. "That will do, Christine."

She let go and her shoulders slumped as her arms dropped. She took a step back reluctantly.

He nodded at her once more. "Farewell, Christine…again."

Without another look back at her, he grabbed his things, opened the door of the stagecoach, and stepped inside. He shouted for the driver to move on, in very crude French, and then Gustave watched as the coach drove away, leaving Christine looking absolutely dejected in its wake.

He watched as his daughter stared after the stagecoach, before it turned a corner and there was nothing physically left for her to mourn. Finally, she turned back to her father and stared at him. Gustave felt a chill run through him as he saw her look of deep, almost unearthly sadness. She studied him for a moment the way one studies the grave of a loved one, before making her way up the steps and back in front of the door, picking up her luggage again as she did so.

As he watched her, he knew in his heart that he was supposed to be happy. He _wanted_ to be happy. But, somehow, all he felt was fear. Fear and instinctual love. For how could he not immediately love her? She was his daughter. No matter how long they had been apart, she was his _daughter_.

But this was exactly why he feared her.

They stared at one another for a few more seconds, Gustave unable to tell if his heart had stopped or begun beating rapidly. Finally, she said, with almost no emotion in her voice whatsoever, "Will you let me into your home now?"

He nodded slowly. "You are always welcome into my home, Christine. You're my child."

She scoffed and looked away. Gustave, although stung at this gesture, said nothing, but instead moved out of the way for her to enter.

He closed the door behind her, and when he turned to face her, he saw that she had dropped her bags and was already beginning to make her way through the house to get accustomed to her surroundings. To his dismay, she was moving toward the parlor.

He stood frozen for a moment, wondering what to say to get her to stop, but knowing there would be no good excuse without giving away why he wanted her to keep out. Besides, she and Erik were bound to meet at some point – most likely sooner than later, as well.

She was outside the parlor entrance when Gustave made up his mind that if she and Erik were going to meet, he had better be there to officiate it.

The moment she went in, her eyes fell on the tall masked young man; he must have heard more of the conversation, for his papers were in his hands as he stood over the desk, where they had been scattered across the surface just moments before.

He was staring with a mixture of awe and fear at the strikingly beautiful girl before him, before he cleared his throat and looked down. "Very sorry, sir. I was just…" he looked back up at Christine, and then quickly toward Gustave. "I was just leaving."

He looked down again at the papers and gathered them into his arms, making his way away from the desk and toward another exit of the parlor.

"Wait," Gustave said, and went around Christine and toward him. "Wait, just a minute, my boy. Please."

Erik, always obedient, stopped in his tracks and nodded slowly.

"Erik," said Gustave. At this point, he was halfway between Erik, who stood in the center of the room, and Christine, who was still standing wide-eyed in the doorway. "I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Christine."

Erik regarded her warily for a moment before giving a deep bow. When he stood up straight, he said softly, "A pleasure, Mademoiselle."

Gustave turned to Christine, and noticed with dread the look of surprise that she maintained. Eyes like wide circles and mouth parted slightly. It was exactly how someone was expected to look when regarding someone in a mysterious mask, but it was exactly how Gustave wanted her _not_ to look at him.

"Christine," he said, "this is Erik Beauchene."

Christine loosened her expression. "Bonjour, Erik."

"Bonjour," he said.

She looked from him to Gustave and back to Erik, and something flickered across her eyes - curiosity, it seemed.

"If you don't mind my asking," she said, and for a moment Gustave's heart sank.

 _Not the mask. Ask about anything but the mask._

She continued, "do you live here, Erik?"

Gustave sighed.

"Yes," Erik said. He was still stiff as he stared at her. "I do."

"Then I guess we will be living together, won't we?" She gave him what Gustave guessed was meant to be a smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

Erik looked immediately at Gustave, worry plain in his eyes. Gustave gave him reassuring look and a nod, and the boy looked back at Christine. "I suppose we will, Mademoiselle," he whispered. "And you must excuse my lack of preparation….I had no idea you were coming."

Gustave frowned. When he looked at Christine, he noticed her expression had turned somewhat dark.

"No," she said softly, "don't worry. That's all right. I understand if my father didn't tell you…I hear he is quite the famous violinist. He was most likely too busy to mention it."

Gustave's face fell at her words; Erik, realizing his blunder, immediately tried to remedy the situation. "No, no, Mademoiselle! I assure you that is not at all what I –"

"So, then, what is your role here, Erik?" she said. The dark expression was gone, replaced by something much sweeter. But it was a sickly sweetness that filled Gustave with regret. "Are you my father's assistant?"

Erik blinked. "No. Not exactly his assistant. I am his housemate, and somewhat his co-worker. He performs violin and I teach it." He readjusted the papers he held under his arm. "I used to be his student, and he practically raised me from the time I was thirteen. He is a good man, and from my experience, a good father."

The dark emotion returned, but was now mixed in with the sweetness in Christine's expression. "He's been a good father to you," she said. "Is that so?"

Gustave pitied him as he watched him fall into a hole that all three of them seemed to have created. He watched as his emotion turned from confusion at her anger, to a dull anger himself. He was flustered, and clearly disliked the lack of control he had over the situation. The concept of making himself look like a fool in front of his teacher's beautiful young daughter could not have helped either.

"Mademoiselle," he said suddenly stonily, "he is, of course, not my real father. But he took care of me and taught me all that he knows. He is a good man, and you are lucky to be his daughter. That is _all_ that I am trying to say."

They looked at one another icily for a long time, or what seemed like a long time, before she turned to look at Gustave. The sweetness was gone, replaced by a heartbreaking malice.

"Well, Gustave," she said, "it's good to know that you were a father to _someone_. I never had an actual parent, but, oh! At least you got a child in the end, after all."

With that, she turned and flew from the parlor, back toward to where her luggage still stood in the entranceway."

Erik looked immediately remorseful. "Sir…I am so, terribly sorry…I…."

"No." Gustave could feel hot blood pounding in every vein in his body. He tread numbly to the wall and leaned one hand against it to steady himself. Even after she said them, he could hear her words ringing in his ears.

 _It's good to know you were a father to_ someone…. _At least you got a child in the end._

"It's not your fault," he said. "Do not think that this is your fault, Erik. I should have told you she was coming."

"If I may ask, sir, why didn't you? I could have been…better prepared."

Gustave looked at him. There was nothing about him that was physically unprepared. His clothes were clean and pressed, and his hair was combed neatly. As always.

He must have meant he could have been mentally prepared.

"Yes," Gustave said, "yes, I know, I should have warned you. It wouldn't have been such a shock. But I was afraid…."

Erik frowned. "Afraid, sir? Afraid of what?"

"Afraid that…" He shook his head. "That you would leave if you found out she was coming."

There were a few seconds of silence, where Erik looked at Gustave with an intense reverence. "Sir," he said softly, "I would never leave. Not unless you asked me to. This house…this is the only place I've ever considered home. I just…worry that my words may have affected your daughter, who _should_ consider this place _her_ home…"

"No, Erik," Gustave said sadly, "any emotion she is feeling would have been felt whether or not you'd said anything. She blames me, Erik." He looked at his surrogate son, student, and friend, and felt a stabbing pain of grief shoot through him at the thought of being hated by his own blood. "She blames me, not just for helping to bring up another, but for never bringing _her_ up in the first place." He closed his eyes. "I can tell that she thinks that I abandoned her, and I have no idea if I will be able to convince her otherwise."

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter!**


	5. Forgotten and Replaced

**Chapter 5**

 **Forgotten and Replaced**

As night began to settle, and each member of the household existed separately in their own rooms, Gustave lay on his bed. He still had on the clothes he'd been wearing all day; even his shoes were on his feet. The candle on the side of his bed burned brightly, but he felt as though there were a terrible gloom filling his bedroom.

Dinner had been skipped by Erik, Christine, and himself. This wasn't intentional; it was just that none of them had any appetite after the disastrous introduction they had all had. Even as Gustave felt his stomach protest with hunger, he couldn't bring himself to find food. How could he eat, knowing that his own daughter despised him?

With a sigh, he got up from the bed. From down the hall, he could hear the sound of violin being played. It sounded like Mozart. He had given him a collection of Mozart's violin concertos, and it seemed Erik was taking full advantage of it.

Of Christine, however, he could hear nothing. He pictured her, sitting in the room he had given her, silently seething as she sat on the bed, the bare room a reminder of how not-home this was. Gustave, in his nervousness, had forgotten to buy the things a young woman might want in her bedroom. No vanity table or decorations, nothing of the sort. Just a plain bed, dresser, and mirror, meant really for the non-existent guests that might have come to his home.

Gustave strode to his own dresser and opened the top drawer. Rummaging through his folded clothes, he found a small wooden box, about the size of a girl's fist, and brought it out, closing the drawer as he did so. He went back to his bed and sat. An astounding sadness came over him as he stared at the box, and part of him didn't even want to open it.

But he did. Of course he did. However upsetting it was, he had to see it again.

Inside was a small silver chain, and attached to the chain, a silver round locket. _Christine_ was inscribed in cursive on it. He took it out and clutched it gently in his hand. He remembered spending a good percentage of his limited money on it for her fourth birthday - after her birth, when the judge took her away, he stopped transferring money to Gustave. He had grown so poor, that this piece of jewelry was a sacrifice. But he'd wanted her to have it. If he could give her a birthday gift, no matter how expensive, he wanted to do it.

But the judge had sent the locket back to him in the mail. There was no note of explanation - and, truthfully, no explanation was needed. He'd long begun to understand that he would no longer be a part of his daughter's life. But the physical proof of it, the sign of the locket, had been the straw that broke everything. He left, taking the locket with him. She wouldn't remember him, but he would never be able to forget her.

Nothing was inside of it - he knew that - but he couldn't help but open it anyway. And, as he stared at the rusting silver inside, he thought ruefully how fitting it was. Just like the locket, Christine held nothing in her heart for him. If anything, her feelings were harsh and eating both him and herself away. Just like the rust.

He closed the locket and, for the first time in a very long time, he cried for his daughter.

* * *

"Don't be such a _girl_ , Raoul!"

The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny rolled his eyes as he sat on the highest branch in the tree. It wasn't a particularly tall tree, not even the tallest tree in the park, but still it was enough to seriously injure someone if they fell from it at an awkward angle.

His best friend, Emil Giry, stared at him with gleaming brown eyes. His blonde hair was neatly combed back - but his appearance matched his actual attitude very little. Emil, as always, was daring him to do outlandish things, things that Emil himself found fun. Raoul supposed that the things he asked him to do _were_ fun; that is, if fun involved the slight risk of certain death.

"Don't be such a _what_?" growled Meg, Emil's sister, as she sat on the branch below him. She was Emil's twin; both literally and metaphorically. Everything about them seemed identical, right down to their rowdy nature. But, somehow, while Emil's recklessness exhausted and even annoyed Raoul, Meg's sent his heart beating. He'd never met a girl so... _exciting_.

"You heard me!" he shouted up. He grinned, crossing his arms. "Don't be such a _girl_!"

She scoffed. Without hesitation, she scooted forward and, taking a deep breath, let herself fall from the tree. Raoul held his breath, his heart nearly stopping, but she landed on her feet with the grace of a house cat. She smoothed down her dress, which had gotten rumpled from the indecency that was climbing and jumping out of trees.

Flattening out the stray hairs of her braid, Meg looked at her brother with a raised eyebrow and a smile. "On the contrary, dear brother. I think a girl is _exactly_ what Raoul should be."

But Emil didn't look at it this way. He stared at Raoul and laughed. "Do you see that, _Vicomte_? Even my sister has more manhood than you do!"

With a rush of anger, Raoul copied Meg's motion and moved forward a bit. Then, with a deep breath and the ghost of a prayer, he let himself fall.

Landing on his feet, he felt a rush of triumph, and stared smugly at Emil as he brushed himself off. His friend only lifted one side of his mouth and shrugged.

"Big deal. It took long enough to muster enough courage. Ten minutes and a girl to do it, just for you to decide you weren't going to die alone up in the tree."

Raoul raised his eyebrows. "Maybe I liked it up there."

"Why? So you could watch the birds fly by and dream about what's inside the Prince of England's trousers?"

"Maybe so. I'd rather see his package in my imagination than deal with you waving yours in my face all the time."

"Boys!" Meg shouted, looking around them for listening passersby. "This talk is foul!" But Raoul couldn't help notice the tiny smile that had begun upon her lips.

She was just so _wonderful_.

Raoul noticed suddenly how dark it was getting. Checking his pocket-watch, he gave a start.

"Oh, Lord...I need to be home in twenty minutes," he said. He sighed. "Rotisserie chicken for supper. Again."

"Your brother is still giving you curfews?" said Meg.

"Yes, unfortunately. And I've already missed it so many times this week. Philippe would be more than cross if I missed it again."

" _Curfew_? At nineteen years old?" Emil said. He grinned. "What a child. Right, Meg?"

Meg grinned back. "Emil. He's a year older than us. If anything he's a man under childish rules."

 _He's a man_. Raoul couldn't help but smile.

"Listen," he said, "I will see you both tomorrow, all right? I really need to go. Goodbye, Emil. Meg."

He nodded quickly and began trotting home. As he came closer and closer to the Parisian mansion, he sped up his pace, feeling like every step was a second that went by on his watch. Finally, he sped through the front door, completely out of breath. Leaning against the wall, heart pounding, he checked the watch again. Still a minute to spare.

His brother, the Comte Philippe de Chagny, was twenty years his senior and had essentially raised Raoul from boyhood. With two deceased parents, and two middle sisters long married, it was just the two of them. And the servants, of course.

But they were constantly bickering; they were as different as any two people could possibly be. While Philippe was all books and quiet mannerisms, Raoul had to be pulled out of school for failing too many classes and sneaking out to spend time in the courtyards. He hadn't really even made close friends at school; he'd the uptight attitudes of fellow richy-rich boys had been enough to make him audibly groan a few times. Philippe had taken on teaching Raoul himself at home how to do basic math and read literature, but Raoul found it a chore.

And on top of that, so many rules. Like the stupid curfew.

He sighed. In all honesty, Philippe would most likely not punish him too harshly, but there was little point in risking anything. And he was getting tired of his brother hounding on him to "improve his future self". Because, obviously, being a few minutes past curfew was going to be catastrophic to his future.

Taking a few deep breaths, he strode nonchalantly into the dining room. His brother was already seated one end of the table, and so Raoul sat down on the other end. It always seemed very odd, sitting on opposite sides of a very long table, needing to speak loudly just to have a conversation. But, as Philippe always explained, this was how the aristocracy sat. "And we are aristocracy, Raoul," he would say, and continue reading whatever boring book he had open in his lap.

Philippe was reading a newspaper, staring at its contents, not even looking up as Raoul walked in. He was always doing this. Most people read the paper only at breakfast, but apparently it was an every-meal thing with him.

He and his brother looked extremely similar, save for the wrinkles that were beginning to form around Philippe's eyes and mouth, and the gray that was peppering his sandy hair. Raoul thought briefly about how he would never become gray. He would keep away from the process of aging by staying youthful. Exercising. Living his life out of doors, and never even considering delving too deep into monotonous academics.

"You're late," Philippe mumbled, keeping his eyes down as he turned the page of a newspaper. A kitchen maid walked into the room with two hot plates of chicken, placing one each in front of the two brothers, and then leaving with a bow.

"I'm _not_ late!" Raoul remarked indignantly. Had he gone through the pains of rushing home only to _still_ be punished?

This time Philippe looked up at him with severity in his eyes, and Raoul sank back into his chair. Somehow his brother always managed to humble him with just a glance. Maybe all that time with books had given him otherworldly mental powers.

"You're _almost_ late, Raoul. You might as well _be_ late. I saw how flushed you looked as you walked in here. Let me guess; you realized you might get into trouble while out with your irresponsible friends and ran home."

Raoul bit his lower lip.

"You have to think about your future!" Philippe exclaimed. He closed the paper. "You have to act more like an adult!"

Raoul sighed. "You're the one who is always telling me to go out and explore what Paris has to offer. Aren't I doing that?"

"Paris has more to offer than what is on the streets and parks. Paris has culture. Academia. Literature. Science. Music. _Immerse_ yourself in it!"

He wanted to roll his eyes, but knew much better than to do that.

"That is why," Philippe continued, and began cutting into his chicken, "I have set up some lessons for you."

Raoul stared. "Lessons? What kind of lessons?"

"Violin lessons."

He gaped. " _Violin_ lessons?"

"Yes. And I have already scheduled you with a teacher. He's been paid. So you are going whether you like it or not." He put a piece of chicken in his mouth and chewed.

Raoul felt his appetite disappear. "And you didn't even _consult_ me first?"

"Tell me, Raoul," Philippe said, and looked at him. "If I had _consulted_ you first, would you have agreed to it? Agreed to anything even remotely similar? Or would you have wanted to continue exploring the streets like a common urchin?"

He slumped. "I...I don't..."

"You see? Now, you will begin lessons two days from now. Apparently Tuesday and Thursday afternoons aren't particularly busy for him." He started cutting into his food. "You will continue to receive lessons from him twice a week until I decide you are responsible enough to make the decision to stop."

Raoul could feel a childlike resentment start to overcome him. "What's the teacher's name?" he asked darkly.

"Erik Beauchene."

"And what _credentials_ does _Monsieur Beauchene_ have?"

Philippe swallowed his food, staring at Raoul with annoyance in his eyes. "He studied under Gustave Daaé. Is that enough _credentials_ , your highness?"

Raoul could feel himself treading into dangerous waters, but he couldn't help himself. "No. It's not enough credentials. In fact, I think the only person with enough credentials to teach me is Gustave Daaé himself. After all, I'm _aristocrat_ , as you always say. Surely an _aristocrat_ deserves better than some arbitrary Erik Beauchene. Tell me, why doesn't Gustave Daaé teach me? Why doesn't-"

"Because he doesn't!" Philippe yelled, slamming his fork onto the table. "And you will respect Monsieur Beauchene like the gentleman I have taught you to be! Like our parents would expect you to be."

Raoul looked down, immediately ashamed. He took a deep breath and waited a couple of seconds before muttering, "Philippe, you could have chosen the piano. Something fun. Entertaining and simple. But you have picked possibly the most boring and difficult instrument, and I didn't even have a choice in the matter."

"I think a little boredom and difficulty will do you good."

He looked up at his older brother. "Fine. But it's _more so_ that I had no choice in the matter. How am I supposed to be a _man_ if I don't even have the freedom to make my own choices?" He pushed his plate away and stood up. "Tell the cooks I appreciate the effort that they put into the meal, but that I am not hungry. Will you allow me to at least make _that_ choice, brother?"

Feeling the icy stare behind him, he strode out of the dining room, wanting nothing more than to go outside, but knowing he might have to take _painting_ lessons too if he even thought about it.

* * *

 **What did you think? Let me know!**


	6. Bitterness and Frustration

**Chapter 6**

 **Bitterness and Frustration**

A stack of books stood half of a meter high on Christine's bedside table. It was the only semblance of personality in her drab bedroom. The dresser, bedside table, and bed were the only furniture, and a full mirror was the only decoration. It was maddening. So she'd snuck down to the parlor and taken as many books as she could carry and brought them up. It had only been two days since she came to her father's house and she was already three pages away from finishing the first book.

She leaned her back against the headrest of the bed, her legs crossed in front of her, the book on her lap. Being able to read nearly nonstop had been able to calm her frustrations, but despite however interesting the novel was, the latent emotions nonetheless made their way to the surface of her mind.

She knew that to be true when her eyes found the word "father" at the end of the page she was on, and she stared the sentence that contained it.

 _The young bride looked back toward the pews of the church, and found her father sitting there, a single tear rolling down his cheek._

Christine couldn't help it. With a dramatic huff, she shut the book violently and flung it toward the foot of the bed. She crossed her arms, her frustration no longer in hiding.

What _was_ a father, anyway? According to the novel she'd just assaulted, it was a man who took care of you since childhood. Someone who you were close enough to that they cried at your wedding day because they just _couldn't bear to lose you._

If that was a father, then how could Gustave possibly want to claim the title? She didn't know him. He hadn't taken care of her, and he clearly hadn't had an issue with _losing_ her.

The only reason he was now so open to her being there was because he no longer had to go through the pains of _raising_ her!

But clearly he wasn't totally against taking care of children. That Erik boy. Gustave must have at last felt the callings of parenthood and taken him in, rather than making the journey back to Sweden for his own daughter. She felt a jealous pang just thinking about it.

If anything, Christine's _grandfather_ had been her father.

She glanced out the window to her left. It looked like it was still early in the day. She knew she shouldn't be spending all day, every day, cooped up in her bedroom. But she couldn't find the motivation to join her so-called "family" downstairs.

* * *

Erik always became nervous before a new client came to the door.

He got all of his clients through Gustave, and he trusted Gustave's judgement. The person he would be teaching was apparently the brother of the Comte Philippe de Chagny, Raoul. He apparently had a gregarious and light-tempered reputation. He would, therefore, certainly at least be a step up from Bayard.

He sat at the desk, tapping his fingers against the surface, staring at the grandfather clock. It was five minutes past two: already Raoul was late. On his first day.

He sighed, his finger-tapping speeding in tempo. He was anxious enough for meeting this stranger, and now his anxiety was only being prolonged.

When five minutes turned to six, and Erik felt hot impatience start to build in his chest, he nearly jumped in his seat as a rapid knock sounded from the front door.

Feeling half-way relieved, he stalked to the front door. He hated greeting strangers, but Gustave was out performing, so Erik was the only one in the house.

Well, Christine was here too. But she had all but locked herself in her room. Poor girl. He already felt guilty enough being a factor in her anger at Gustave; he certainly wouldn't expect her to answer the front door.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled the door open, and was met with a young man around Erik's own age, if a year or two younger. He was dressed well; clearly he was aristocratic. But his stance said anything _but_ aristocracy. He was leaning his hand against the frame of the door, his sand-colored hair a mess, and his breathing coming in and out deeply with his mouth opened slightly, as if he'd run here.

But the thing that Erik noticed first was his face. It was perfectly sculpted, with a sharp nose, high cheeks, and bright eyes. He'd had reasonably attractive clients before, but this young man was so handsome that it made Erik unreasonably _annoyed._

Raoul's gaze shot up to Erik, his breathing still a bit ragged. He stared at him in surprise for a few seconds, his eyes roaming over the mask, and Erik shifted uncomfortably. Then, Raoul blinked, and closed his mouth. He stood up straight and moved his hand away from the frame, straightening out his clothes. He gave a small smile and held out his hand.

"Bonjour, Monsieur!"

Out of instinct, he nodded curtly and took Raoul's hand in his. "Bonjour. Monsieur de Chagny?"

Raoul nodded, still smiling, and shook his hand. "Please call me Raoul, Monsieur; it's a pleasure to meet you. I am here for the violin lessons."

"Good, because I am here to _give_ violin lessons." He took his hand away.

"And you are Monsieur...Erik Beauchene?"

"Yes. And it is a pleasure, as well." Feeling bored by the pleasantries, he motioned him inside, and began leading him toward the parlor. He heard Raoul close the door behind him.

"You have a very lovely home, Erik."

Erik jolted a bit at the lack of formality - none of his clients had ever addressed him by his first name before. It was a bit jarring to hear a stranger say it. He couldn't help but stop and glance back at him, and Raoul saw his gaze and gave an awkward half-smile in return.

"Thank you," he said stiffly, and continued to lead him into the parlor. "But it is not my home. This home belongs to the violinist Gustave Daaé."

"Oh! My mistake. So you don't live here?"

Erik and Raoul made their way into the room, Erik leaving the door open. Raoul, apparently finding himself at home, sat on the sofa. Erik wanted to say something against this breach of niceties, but kept his mouth shut.

"I do live here, Monsieur. I am Gustave Daaé housemate. He taught me how to work a violin in my favor, and now I am going to teach you"

"As I said, you can just call me Raoul." He smiled again. "And that's wonderful! So, in a sense, I am getting lessons from Gustave Daaé! Well, indirectly, I guess. Which is amazing, still. Not that lessons from you would be bad, but...you know..."

He trailed off in an awkward laugh, Erik's unsmiling face apparently not what he had been aiming for.

"In a sense, yes. But Monsieur Daaé has better things on his agenda than to give lessons. You will have to settle for me."

"Oh, no...no, yes, that's...that's fine." Raoul shifted uncomfortably, his face growing red. For some reason, this gave Erik a bit of pleasure, but he couldn't quite place why. He knew it was cruel to be enjoying the embarrassment of an innocent person, but he couldn't help it.

And then he realized.

He was jealous.

Raoul was handsome. Incredibly handsome. And Erik's face was so hideous that he couldn't even look in a mirror without feeling disgusted. He had everything that Erik could never have, and he felt envy in the deepest corners of his heart.

Maybe, if he had looked like Raoul, he would be brave enough to take on female clients.

Hell, if he had looked at Raoul, he would never have had to run away from his terrible mother, or run away from that horrible fair. He wouldn't have a fear of _people_.

"So," Raoul continued, apparently trying to fill the empty silence. Erik knew he should have cut him off and begun the lessons, but he wanted to see just how awkward Raoul could become. "Are you...going to a masquerade later? Hahaha...I mean, should I have worn a mask as well? You...I mean...sorry." He looked away, cringing at his own awkwardness.

Mention of the mask by the object of his jealousy made him involuntarily tense. "No. No masquerade, Monsieur. I wear a mask for private reasons. Reasons you wouldn't quite understand."

Raoul only seemed to sink lower into the seat. "All right. I'm sorry for mentioning it." Again, he tried desperately to assuage the awkwardness. "So...Gustave Daaé performed at my birthday party when I was much younger."

"Fascinating." Erik, deciding it was time to work, looked at the clock and saw that it was already ten minutes past. "Now, you only have fifty minutes left of your lesson. If you had arrived earlier, you'd have the full sixty. You realize, of course, you are late."

It was Raoul's turn to grow agitated. "Yes, apparently it's a theme with me." He stood up, finally. "All right, then, what do I need to do?"

"Well, first," Erik said, crossing his arms. "I notice that you don't have your violin with you. Did you leave it outside?"

Raoul blinked stupidly. "My...violin?"

"Yes. Your violin." Erik raised a brow under the mask. "You _didn't_ forget your violin, did you?"

"I...I didn't know I actually needed one. At least not for the first lesson."

It took all of Erik's strength not to groan. "You didn't know you needed a violin for violin lessons?"

"I just...I figured you might provide one." His face was red as blood now.

Erik, now thoroughly impatient, felt the annoyance and envy push his words out of his mouth for him. "Ah, yes. Well, I suppose you would have expected that. You're part of the aristocracy. Everything has been handed to you since birth, hasn't it? Money, fame, comfort...love. It's all been there, ever since you popped out of your mother's womb. And that mother coddled you, I bet. She taught you that women would flock to you, that men would envy you, that _people_ would _love_ you, simply for being so _special_. What a privilege it must be to not even realize you need to _supply your own violin for violin lessons_."

Raoul's eyes were wide as he gaped, shocked, at Erik for a few moments. Then, his flawless features twisted into anger.

"First of all," he said, his voice deep. "My mother is dead. She died, along with my father, in an accident years ago. So don't you dare bring my mother into this."

Erik stared, immediately regretting his choice of words.

"Second of all, I have done absolutely nothing to you. I have been a perfect gentleman to you. Hell, I didn't even want to _come_! But I decided be kind and obliging to the person who would be doing me the honor of teaching me how to play an instrument. I figured, if I have to go, why not make it a pleasant experience for the both of us? But here I am, confirming what I knew to be true the moment my brother told me he had taken the reigns of my personal life and signed me up for these _damned_ lessons: No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, apparently I just can't do anything right. Well, that's fine! I will go, _Monsieur._ Have a fantastic afternoon."

Erik wasn't sure the last time he had felt a deeper regret for his actions. He watched as Raoul's eyes grew pink, and how his face continued to flush mercilessly. He watched as he turned to leave the room, and Erik sighed.

He was blaming Raoul for things completely out of his control. He was being prejudiced against him simply for how he looked, just as others had done to _him_ his entire life.

How could he wish for understanding from others if he wasn't willing to give it?

"Wait," he said softly.

Raoul spun around to stare at him, rage plain on his face.

"I am sorry, Raoul. I am. You caught me in a...rather dark mood. Please. You still have forty-five minutes of your lesson. If you will allow me to use them to your advantage, I would very much like to."

Raoul relaxed a bit, but there was still a good amount of hurt in his eyes. "No point. As you said, I don't have a violin."

"That's all right." He smiled gently. "You can use mine."

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed Erik's and Raoul's meeting! See you next week!**


	7. Angel Voices

**Enjoy Chapter 7!**

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

 **Angel Voices**

Nightfall came as Erik lit a candle and set up the book of Mozart's compositions. The lessons with Raoul had ended much better than most, despite the rocky beginning. Somehow, he could already tell that _that_ student may hold actual potential. And, he thought, he turned out to actually be _likable_.

But now he had to focus on his own musical skills.

He held his violin in one hand as he flipped through the pages. He felt his heart sink as he came to a realization. He'd mastered nearly every violin song in there. But his mastery of the songs wasn't what made him anxious.

The majority of the compositions in the collection were made up of Mozart's five violin concertos, but at the very back of the book was an aria, a composition meant for singing. It was written for a tenor, and was apparently a sort of bonus feature for the violinists who also liked to use their voice.

But Erik hadn't sung since his days in the traveling fair, where he was _forced_ to sing. All the while people gawked at his corpse-like features, amazed at the contradiction it held against his angelic voice.

And it _was_ angelic. That was something he himself was willing to admit, even while his features were demonic. He was proud of it. But no one knew. Not even Gustave.

The last time he had sung, someone had thrown an apple core at him through the bars of a cage.

Singing did not bring back happy memories

And yet...it had been something he'd always known how to do naturally. Even when his passion, violin, had required lessons, Erik's voice was simply beautiful of its own accord. His mother, though never exactly encouraging him, still never failed to mention "how lovely that voice is inside that monster of a child". Up until the time he was nine, singing had been as natural as talking.

But then, when he'd been forced to expose himself to hundreds upon hundreds, humiliated every night, made to give up his natural gift to those who were disgusted by him at worst and pitied him at best...his ability to love his own voice, the only thing he had _ever_ loved about himself, had been stripped away. It had been tainted.

And now, even eight years later, he still had nightmares. Flashbacks. Horrible, horrible visions of those days when he had been treated worse than an animal. If it weren't for Gustave's company and teachings, Erik wasn't sure where he would have ended up. His gratitude was almost enough to make the memories go away.

But it wasn't. Nothing was enough. The best he could do was play the violin and let the soft music push out the bad, and bring in the safe and comfortable.

Except now the only composition left in the book was an _aria_. A damn _aria_.

He could skip it. He knew that. But Gustave had _given_ him the book. And Erik felt more than ashamed at the thought of not taking complete advantage of every aspect of the small gift. It felt ungrateful. Inadequate. Like he wasn't giving his all.

Even if Gustave hadn't meant for Erik to study the aria as well...he probably would never know, either way...he felt he owed him somehow to learn it.

Overcoming his fear and anxieties would prove to himself that maybe, just maybe, he was actually worthy of everything Gustave had given him.

He could try. He _would_ try. And if it felt too painful, if the memories pierced his skull and his heart raced, he could stop. At least he would be trying.

He took a deep breath, flattening out the page of the aria. He put the violin down, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth to sing.

* * *

Christine, eyes wide, sitting on her bed and with a book open on her lap, couldn't believe the sound she was hearing from Erik's room.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful. She'd never heard a voice so incredibly pure and true, with perfect pitch and vibrato. And yet it sounded somehow...sad and timid. Like the singer was afraid of the power of his own voice.

The singer was Erik. It had to be Erik. Who else could it be?

That very strange and very formal boy in a mask...

She hadn't asked about that piece of porcelain on his face. Truly, she hadn't very much cared upon meeting him, she was more focused on the intense jealousy she felt at having been shamelessly replaced. But the more time went on, the more it seemed odd that he never took it off. Why was it there?...

And _how_ could such a voice belong to a human being? It was too heavenly!

Heavenly but sad.

For, truly, the more she listened, the more heartbreaking it was to listen to. It wasn't even a sad song...a rather happy one, actually...but it was sung as if singing were the most tragic thing Erik could think of doing.

Finally, when he was mid-lyric, he suddenly stopped. There was silence for a few moments, and then Erik let out a guttural yell and a frighteningly loud crash was heard.

Without hesitation, Christine dropped the book onto the bed and flew out of the room. She sprinted across the hall and knocked urgently on his door.

"Erik! Erik, are you all right?"

There seemed to be several seconds of stunned silence, before a shaky voice responded with surprise, "I'm quite all right, Mademoiselle."

Christine stitched her eyebrows. "Erik..."

"Thank you for your concern."

Thoroughly unconvinced, she sighed. "Erik, please open up."

Silence.

"Please?"

She heard an exhale of breath, and then footsteps coming toward the door. The door opened, and Erik was staring down at her with a look of intense timidity and what seemed to be some kind of distress. Behind him she saw a music stand toppled over, a book laying face-down on the floor.

She looked at him. "Are you really all right?"

He sighed, the distress deepening in his eyes. "It's nothing I can't handle. I will be fine. I had a moment of...emotion."

She frowned. "It's all right." Her head cocked to the side. "Is there something you were emotional about?"

Hid bottom lip thinned. "It's hard to explain."

"Oh." She nodded, though not totally understanding, and then a thought occurred to her. She couldn't have been the only one to hear the yell and crash...

"Where is my..." She struggled on the word _father_.

"Your father?" he said, seemingly glad to be rid of the previous conversation. "He's still out performing. It's an event outside of Paris; he most likely won't be home till very late this evening."

"I see," he said, but somehow felt annoyed. She bet that, had he chosen to be her guardian from the start, he wouldn't have been as advanced in his career as he was now. But being a bachelor had given him his perks...

"Your father cares about you," Erik said softly, and she realized he was staring at her. "I do hope you understand that."

She looked away and slumped against the frame of the door. Now _she_ was the one wanting a conversation change.

"I heard you singing," she said. "You're very good."

She looked at him again. He gave a very small smile, but it was hard to truly read his expression with the mask in the way. His bottom lip and eyes were the only source she was given to his feelings, as the subtle cues the face gives off were invisible. "Thank you, Mademoiselle."

"You're welcome... Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you...why are you always wearing a mask?"

In an instant, he seemed to shrink into himself emotionally. "I'd rather not say."

"So you won't take it off?"

What Christine had meant to say was "so you plan to continue wearing it?" but what it must have sounded like to Erik was "will you take it off?", for a flash of fear passed through his eyes, before the focused calm returned.

"No." His voice was stony. "Excuse me, Mademoiselle. I think it's time we both got ready for bed. Goodnight."

He began shutting the door, but Christine, alarmed, put a hand out to stop him.

"Wait!"

Annoyance in his eyes, he stared at her. "Mademoiselle..."

"Erik, please!" She pushed open the door with force, taking Erik by surprise.

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed. He composed himself after a moment. "Mademoiselle, I understand _fully_ that you dislike me. But I must request that at least some of my dignity remain intact nonetheless."

She stared at him.

"I'm sorry that you are forced to live with me," he continued coldly. "I'm sorry that you didn't get to enjoy your father's company in your childhood. I'm sorry that your entire life changed because of mere circumstances. I'm very sorry. And I know that you must blame me. And you have every liberty to blame me. Dislike me. Even hate me. But I have to ask that you leave my privacy in peace. I have to request that you do not ask to see the horrors that are under my mask. I-"

He stopped, widening his eyes, realizing he had said too much. He spun away, putting a hand against the doorframe and exhaling sharply.

 _Horrors._

Disfigurement, Christine realized. That's why. He was disfigured. And badly so, if he called it _horrors._

She bit her lip, feeling ashamed of herself in the silence between them. "Erik," she whispered, "you don't have to tell me what's under your mask."

After a few seconds, he turned slowly back around to face her, a look of vulnerability in his mismatched eyes.

"You don't have to show me. It's your secret; it doesn't matter to me. I won't ask. If what's under your mask is private, I won't invade. I promise."

He stared wordlessly for a moment, and she could see something like gratefulness in his gaze. She smiled.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"Of course." A few moments more of silence, and then she offered her hand.

Perhaps she felt she owed it to him. Perhaps she was starting to feel lonely. Or perhaps, in that moment, she truly wanted what she was about to ask for.

"Would you like to be friends?" she said dumbly.

Erik looked, stunned, at the offered hand.

"You want to be... _friends_ with me?"

She nodded.

He blinked several times. "Why?"

She pursed her lips. Her hand was still outstretched, and she was quickly growing embarrassed at his lack of reciprocation. But, she kept her hand out nonetheless.

"I..." She wanted to say something kind, something to make him know she didn't actually blame him. That was, of course, all true. But what came out of her mouth was, "I don't have any friends."

She blushed, surprised at her own words, and Erik stared at her with an unreadable expression. Just as she was about to pull her hand away, he placed his gently in hers, just barely touching it.

"If it would please you, Mademoiselle."

She squeezed his hand once and then let it go; an actual handshake suddenly felt too formal. "You don't have to call me Mademoiselle. 'Christine' is fine, Erik."

At that, he really did smile. "Of course. Thank you, Christine."

* * *

 **See you next week!**


	8. Dissonance and Harmony

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 **Dissonance and Harmony**

Since coming to her father's house, Gustave had knocked on her bedroom twice a day to ask if Christine wanted to eat with them. She remained silent every time, only sneaking down to the kitchen to smuggle bread or fruit after he and Erik were in bed. It was childish, yes, but somehow satisfying. She felt in control of the situation.

As she finished a book and picked up another, not even pausing to let herself come completely out of the finished book's world, she glanced out the window. It was black outside.

Normally, Gustave would invite her by now. But he hadn't even bothered tonight.

A rush of anger overcame her.

So he'd just given up after all.

That was all it took to prove he was the distant, uncaring parent she knew him to be.

* * *

"Christine! Well...good evening, Christine."

Gustave stood from his chair and stared in surprise at the sight of his daughter standing in the doorway of the dining room, her arms folded and a frown upon her face. Even Erik had to look up from his plate of food.

"Good evening," she responded quietly, looking at the table.

"Are you...are you going to join us tonight, then?"

"I was considering it." Christine shuffled her feet a bit and looked at her father. "But I see that there's no plate set for me, which, you know, I thought was a bit strange, seeing as I am your daughter and I live here. In case you weren't actually aware."

Gustave, feeling deflated, sat, and Erik sighed warily beside him. Christine pursed her lips.

"Christine..." Gustave began.

"No, no, really. I am being rude, assuming things like that. I just thought I could come join you both, seeing as Erik and I became friends yesterday. Right, Erik? I just didn't want to let my anger with _you_ , Gustave, get in the way of my friendship with him."

Gustave raised his eyes at Erik, who had a look of sheer discomfort in his eyes. "Is that true?" he asked.

"Well, yes, sir. Christine and I talked and we ended up on good terms."

"That's, I mean..." Gustave looked back at his daughter, who was now leaning against the doorframe. "That's wonderful. Come, then, Christine. Sit. I'll get you a plate. There's plenty more turkey and vegetables. I'll be just a minute."

Gustave stood up again and hurried past Christine and into the kitchen. He quickly carved a sizable chunk of meat and scooped a generous helping of greens onto a plate, plucking a fork and knife from the drawer. When he was back in the dining room, he found Christine folding down her dress as she made herself comfortable in a chair opposite Erik. Gustave placed the plate in front of her, and she nodded shortly but didn't look at him. He took his seat once again at the head of the table.

"Now then," he started as Christine began cutting apart her supper, "what, uh, what did you do today, Christine?"

"Looked at the fascinating paintings that are lining by bedroom. Really, there's so many decorations in there, that I actually feel a bit overstimulated...Oh!" She put down her fork and closed her eyes in mock realization. "Right. I remember. That's the _rest_ of the house. _My_ room reflects your attitude toward me as I was growing up; barely given any thought."

Gustave's heart sank, and Erik cleared his throat, pushing his chair back and standing. "I should go. My new client is coming again tomorrow and I have to prepare. Goodnight, sir... Goodnight, Christine."

He gave a little bow, and made his way stiffly and hurriedly from the room, leaving Christine and Gustave by themselves.

Gustave sighed at his leave. Ever since Christine arrived, they hadn't been spending the same amount of time together. Mealtime was one of the few times they had talked the last few days.

"Christine," Gustave began, "you must understand, you _are my_ daughter. I..."

"Am I?" She whipped her gaze to Gustave.

"Yes." He stitched his brow. "And I must say that you are _wrong_. I gave plenty of thoughts to you while you grew up. More than you could ever know!"

" _Then where were you_?"

He stared at her, already knowing this was a losing battle, but feeling he had to fight regardless. "In Paris, Christine. Missing you everyday."

She gave a joyless smile and snorted. " _Missing_ me? Ha! If you'd missed me, you wouldn't have escaped to Paris, would you?"

"I came to Paris because there was no point in staying in Uppsala! I-"

At once, her face turned red, and as if her anger made her forget to speak French, she began to shout in Swedish. " _No point!_ I was there! Your daughter! Me! You left me behind because I was too much of a responsibility! You didn't want to deal with the repercussions of _slee_ _ping_ with my mother! So you left me with my grandfather, who cared ten times more for me than you ever did!"

Gustave went white, eyes wide. He responded in the same language. "So that's what Judge Falk told you. That I wanted nothing to do with you."

"And what? It's not true?"

"No, of course it's not true!" Gustave slammed his fists on the table. Anger was beginning to bubble up inside of him. _How dare_ that snake tell his daughter lies about her own father? "I wanted to take care of you! But I had no money, no legacy, we would have been practically drifters..."

"Oh! So it wasn't me that was the whole problem; it was the concept of staying _poor_..."

"No! I didn't care! I just wanted my daughter! Hell, I wanted my _wife_ back, but she was gone. All I had was you. Your grandfather practically _took_ you from me. He thought I wasn't fit to raise his granddaughter and wanted you for himself."

She grimaced, shaking her head. "That's not true."

"It is true!"

"No." Tears were beginning to form in her blue eyes. "No, my grandfather would not have done that. He was a good man! A good person! He wouldn't have been so selfish."

Gustave looked away. "Well, he was."

She stood up so suddenly that the legs of the chair screeched against the ground. Her lip was quivering. "Don't you dare talk about my grandfather that way. I may have your blood, but I am not your daughter. You are a dreadful, irresponsible scoundrel and liar!...Oh, and thank you for the meal, but _for some reason_ I've lost my appetite."

She turned and stormed toward the doorway, but before walking through it, she spun around once more. "And, _please_ , for the love of God! Please put something, anything, on the walls of my bedroom! I can't bear one more second in there, staring at the barren walls, feeling so completely not at home; so completely _empty_!"

At that, Christine turned and bolted from the room. Gustave put in his head in his hands.

 _What on God's green Earth was he supposed to do, now that he'd completely shattered any remaining shreds of trust she'd had for him?_

* * *

Raoul was actually early this time.

Erik had instructed him to purchase his own violin - and when he walked in with a sleek brown instrument, Erik could already tell that this lesson was going to turn out much better than the last. He had also told him to practice a short, simple song. When he sat in the parlor and told Raoul to show him what he had accomplished thus far, he couldn't help but cringe at the screeches and moans the violin gave, as if being played by him was actually painful to the instrument.

Raoul must have noticed Erik's distaste, for he stopped after a couple of minutes and sighed.

"I practiced. I really did. This is just...very difficult."

"Yes, it is a bit of a puzzling instrument. Certainly not the easiest to master." He stood up from where he was sitting. "But, I can tell that you did try. Which is more than I can say for many other students."

Raoul smiled gratefully.

"But, here," he continued, and made a shape with his fingers, "you should hold the bow like this, like I showed you last time..."

The hour was passing quite quickly, and when Raoul's lesson was almost over, they were interrupted by a knock on the open door. Both boys spun around, surprised, and saw Christine standing shyly in the doorway.

"Christine," Erik said, and nodded, still feeling slightly uncomfortable after the scene last night. Of course, even after his leave, he could still pick up almost every word. Being gifted with an unnatural sense of hearing could be a blessing and a curse.

"Erik, and Monsieur," she said, nodding to both of them, but keeping her eyes on Erik. There was something in them that Erik had never seen someone look at him with before - he sensed that it was embarrassment. "Very sorry to interrupt. I wasn't sure how much longer you were going to be, and I realized that I left my book in here earlier. I was just hoping to get it."

"Oh, the lesson was actually almost over," Erik said.

"Oh! Of course." She nodded. "I will come back in a little while, then."

She turned to leave, and Erik protested, "It's no problem, really. Come in and grab it. You're not disturbing anyone at all."

Christine smiled and entered, heading to the coffee table to pick up the novel laying there. When Erik looked at Raoul, he saw him looking at her with interest, and felt a pang of... _something_. Not jealousy. More like annoyance.

But that was insane. Why would he feel annoyed that Raoul looked at Christine a certain way?

As she was passing Erik to leave, she stopped and leaned in. "By the way," she whispered, still looking embarrassed, "I am very sorry about last night. I really did not mean for you to witness any of that. What's going on between my father and I has nothing to do with you... I do hope you still wish to be friends with me."

He felt breathless at her physical closeness. Never, he realized, had he had a girl enter this proximity with him of her own volition, nor ask for forgiveness in any way. It was almost surreal. But it made any discomfort he'd felt with her argument with Gustave evaporate.

"Of course," he said softly, and he nearly regretted it when Christine nodded and left her nearness.

"Do you live here, too?" Raoul said suddenly as she was leaving, book in hand, and she turned to him. She looked at him with surprise.

"Excuse me, Monsieur?"

He smiled gregariously. He put down the violin he'd been holding and put out a hand. She took it and they shook.

"That was rude. I apologize. My name is Raoul. I asked if you live here too."

She nodded. "Yes, I do."

"Oh! Are you Erik's..." he trailed off, nodding toward his tutor.

Both Christine and Erik flushed at the insinuation.

"No, no, no," Erik stammered. "She's Monsieur Daaé's daughter."

"Oh! I's nice to meet you!"

His friendly demeanor brought a smile to her face. "Likewise, Monsieur."

"Do you have an accent?" he asked. "It sounds..."

"Swedish."

"Swedish!" He brightened. "You're from Sweden then? I've heard about Sweden. Apparently it's a lovely country..."

They continued on like this, and Erik felt suddenly intrusive. This was _their_ conversation. Besides, the lesson was just about done. He could tack on five more minutes to next week.

He wanted to leave. But his feelings of intrusiveness weren't the only reasons why. Looking at them, smiling and laughing, made him feel suddenly...insecure.

She was _Erik's_ friend. She'd said it at least three times. But now she was talking to Raoul, who was far more attractive than him, with shining eyes and a bubbling personality. And Erik? He was spider-like and quiet. Who would she rather talk to, really? Why would she want to be Erik's friend when she could easily become friends with Raoul?

But no. Of course. She could have more than one friend. Just because Erik had never even dreamed of even having one, didn't mean it wasn't perfectly normal to have a healthy circle of friendships.

And, seeing the happy look in her eyes as she talked, so different from how she'd looked at supper, made him _glad_ she could have friends.

She was so... _beautiful_ when she was happy.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, and I will see you on Friday!**

 **Oh, and get ready for some Erik/Christine cuteness starting next chapter!**


	9. Innocent Request

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

 **Innocent Request**

Erik couldn't sleep. Thoughts and questions were racing through his head as he stared at the ceiling.

The worst thought, the main thought, was this:

If he said he wasn't conflicted over how he felt about Christine, he would be lying.

As the days had gone by, he saw Gustave's agitation and sadness grow, and he knew it was because of her. If she had been unrelated to Gustave, if she had been a complete stranger to Erik, he would have surely disliked her sourly.

At first, he had assumed her anger was toward himself; of course, this was obviously no longer the case. And he'd thought, perhaps, her emotions would calm. But he'd never been more wrong. That one night at supper, she had been brutally disrespectful toward the man who raised him from adolescence. And he'd been _so_ uncomfortable. So terribly _confused_. He felt fiercely loyal to Gustave, of course... But Christine had been the first girl to want to even be _near_ him. Before her, he'd been faced with nothing but disgust from the opposite sex.

And not only had she offered him friendship, she'd respected his _privacy_. And loss of privacy had developed quickly into one of his worst fears. There was no way he could go back to being exposed and humiliated the way he'd been in childhood. He couldn't do it.

 _And she'd essentially promised that he would never feel that way around her._

It was impossible not to feel tremendously grateful toward her, to like her, to want _very_ much to be her friend.

But the way Gustave was reacting to that fight... It was enough to make him question where his loyalties lied.

If only he could get involved. To get Christine to see how _unfair_ she was being.

But this wasn't his business. It wasn't his place to be the middle-man. He had to simply be kind to both of them.

He was sure, though, that if it came down to it, he would surely choose Gustave over Christine. If he had to pick a side, that is where he would go. There was no question about it.

He sighed, wanting to rub his eyes, but being too afraid to touch his own bare face. He had tried sleeping with the mask, but it was far too uncomfortable.

It was a good thing there were no mirrors in his room. How ironic it would be to be frightened by a monster in your bedroom, only to discover the monster is _you_.

* * *

Christine was becoming stir-crazy.

She'd never spent so much time indoors. When she had lived with her grandfather, they'd taken walks outside every evening. It had always been her favorite part of the day, those peaceful hours that she just enjoy his company and the crisp, colorful atmosphere as the sun went below the horizon.

She would never be able to take those walks with him again. But she could always take walks with someone _else_.

It was approaching five in the afternoon as she sat on a settee in the hallway just outside the parlor. She stared distantly at the floral blue wallpaper as she listened, cringingly, to Erik give his lesson to a stranger inside.

It was not going well.

"Monsieur, for God's sake, will you please just focus?" Erik said with exasperation.

"It just puzzles me endlessly!..."

"It's your money you are wasting here. I hope you realize that."

"And I don't like it! I don't like that you wear the mask. It's just odd!"

"Monsieur, _please_..."

"I mean, I certainly knew you wore it before I took these lessons on," the man continued. "My friend mentioned it; he thought it was strange, but gave you wonderful reviews despite of it. His praise was enough to make me overlook the odd detail and give you a try, but it's just too weird! It looks too _eerie_!"

Erik sighed deeply, although whether from frustration or exhaustion she couldn't quite tell. She felt sorry for him; was this a regular occurrence in his life?

"I really would appreciate it if you left the matter of the mask alone, Monsieur," he said softly.

"Just tell me why you wear it!"

"Monsieur, no!"

Anger had finally creeped into Erik's voice, and Christine dug her fingernails into the cushion of the settee. _Just leave it alone. Leave the topic of the mask alone..._

"I tell you," the man said, "if it weren't for the esteem of Gustave Daaé, I would half wonder if there was something wrong with you, hiding behind that piece of white porcelain on your face. You understand that, don't you? It's certainly not normal or decent people who wear masks like an everyday piece of clothing."

Erik was silent. Christine cringed deeply.

The man continued, "Luckily you _do_ have the esteem of Daaé. And Daaé is highly respected. You're fortunate for that."

"I am fortunate for that," Erik agreed stonily, "but, _unfortunately_ , I believe that you have run out of time."

"The majority of the reason you're even getting customers is because you learned directly from Daaé, and we want to as well; but you're the closest we've got! He's the only real explanation for your success."

"You're right, without him, I'd be nowhere." Erik's voice was laced with ice. "But as I said, you've run out of time."

"And a good waste of time, too! Christ!"

She heard the man start walking toward the door of the parlor.

"You are the one who wasted your own time, not me, Monsieur," Erik said bitterly.

She saw half his body in the frame of the door as he spun around to look back at Erik. The man was tall and thin, but with a beer gut and an abnormally large red mustache. He looked every bit as ridiculous as he'd sounded.

"If you'd just told me what your mask is for, we wouldn't even have to have this discussion!"

"I suppose you will be searching for a _normal_ or _decent_ violin teacher, then? Seeing as the mask is such a distraction."

"You're correct in that." He tipped his hat tersely. "Goodnight."

Without another word, and without even noticing Christine on the settee, he left through the front door.

Immediately, Christine stood from her seat and made her way into parlor. She bit her lip as she saw Erik on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

Poor boy.

She knocked lightly on the doorframe.

He gave a small gasp and stood, as if on reflex. He blinked a few times as he saw her there, and then he sighed.

"I suppose you heard that exchange?"

She pursed her lips and nodded.

"Yes, well..." He looked away. "That's not the first time I lost clientele because they were put off by the mask. Luckily my skill and association with your father saves my reputation for the most part." He crossed his arms. "Besides, there's a bit of talk about the 'masked violin teacher' that apparently intrigues quite a few people, and I've gotten clients just because of the fascination." He gave a short, humorless laugh. "It's uncomfortable when the topic comes up, yes, but I rarely have someone so focused on the mask as that man was today. Honestly, I believe he simply has nothing better to do than meddle in people's lives."

"I'm very sorry you have to deal with that," she said softly.

"I'm used to it by now." He collected a pile of composition papers that were lying on the coffee table. One must have escaped his grip, for it slid from his long fingers and landed gracefully about a meter from Christine's feet.

She stitched her eyebrows and walked into the room, bending to pick up the paper. "You shouldn't be used to that. It's really not fair."

Erik came to her and gently took the paper from her hands as she stood upright again. He gave a little bow of thanks, but still, he couldn't hide the tiredness that was in his mismatched eyes.

"What are my alternatives, then?" he asked, looking down at the compositions as he organized them by page number.

"I don't know." She raised an eyebrow. " _Not_ being questioned about your personal life choices?"

He pursed his lips and looked at her briefly, before shaking his head and walking toward the piano. As if handling precious jewels, he placed the papers on the stand.

"Would be nice," he said wistfully. She watched as he sat on the stool and began trailing his graceful fingers absentmindedly on the keys, never pressing down. "To be like everyone else. To not have to be questioned at every turn. To just _exist_ without drawing attention to myself." He looked at her again and put his hands in his lap. "But in a _realistic_ world. In this world. What are my alternatives?

"I don't know," she whispered. And truly, she realized sadly, she didn't.

"I do." He nodded. "My alternatives are that I could tell people the reason for my mask, or better yet, take the mask off completely, at their request. But I don't plan on doing either one. Or I could never, ever speak to another living soul, other than you and your father, for as long as I am alive." He shook his head, and again looked down at the piano. "I'll take my chances with the wary probing of strangers."

Christine didn't know what to say, as she just stood there, staring at him as he seemed to retreat into a rather unhappy corner of his mind. She had to get him out of that zone. Distract him.

Besides, she had come to the parlor for a reason.

She cleared her throat.

"Erik, would you like to go out?"

He tensed, and his alarmed and confused gaze snapped to her direction. "I'm _sorry_?"

"Out. Out of the house. We could get something to eat, or shop a bit, or even just walk in the park. It's usually very nice out around this time."

His eyes were wide as he stared at her. What little she could read of his covered expression seemed to say _'you are actually, truly asking_ me _to_ go out _?'_ She couldn't tell if he was more frightened or pleasantly shocked by her innocent request. Probably _both_.

He blinked, and in an instant his demeanor changed. His shoulder slumped and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. Rather than alarmed he looked almost accusing.

"Christine," he said softly, "why don't you ask your father?"

It was her turn to look shocked. "I don't want to."

"I think you should."

She frowned. "Why?"

Erik sighed. "He's hurt by that conversation you had a couple of nights ago."

"So am I." She defensively folded her arms in front of her.

"It's not his fault."

Christine looked at him incredulously. Was she _really_ having this conversation? "My grandfather wouldn't have just...kidnapped me from my own father."

"But you really think your father would have abandoned you?" He stood from the stool and crossed his arms as well.

"Well, it..." she stammered and blinked. "It seems more likely than-"

"I know him, possibly better than anyone. And I am telling you with complete sincerity that he would not have simply dropped you without a second thought."

"Maybe he's changed."

"Maybe he has. But if that's true, why would he take in another, strange child when he already has one of his own flesh and blood."

They looked at one another for a few seconds. He had a point, Christine thought. And Gustave had most definitely made some strides to win her favor. Stepping on eggshells around her. Inviting her to dinner almost every night. Even, _finally_ , decorating her room with feminine trinkets and floral paintings.

She felt her unwavering resolve begin to falter. "My grandfather wouldn't have done something that cruel...would he?"

Erik looked at her sadly. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Whatever the case, she would have to have a discussion with him. A civilized one. Where she didn't lose her temper so easily.

"I'll talk to him," she whispered.

"Good," he said, and a weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders.

"But not tonight. Tonight, I am asking to go out with you."

The weight was back, and seemingly heavier than before. "Christine, I..."

"I mean it! At some point, I _will_ talk to him..."

"I know! I know. It's just, I don't think it's a good idea for me to go, either way."

She cocked her head. "Why not?"

He sat again at the piano, and his gaze went to a window on the other side of the room. Light was streaming in, and Christine noticed how it reached all the way up to his neck, but left his covered face in semi-shadow.

"I just...I don't think I can go into shops, into restaurants, into crowded parks."

The mask. Of course. That cruel little object that was keeping him from enjoying even an evening stroll.

"Erik, yes you can," she whispered. "Don't let the rudeness of that man get in the way of enjoying your life! Please, come out tonight with me. It'll be fun."

His hands made fists as they rested on his thin legs, and when he looked at her, it was with a pained expression that made her chest give a lurch. She saw in his eyes some secret, something that he wasn't willing to immediately share but still wished to convey. "Look at me," he said softly. "Look at what just happened, with that client. I scare people away in my own _home_." His fists tightened. "I wouldn't fare well in other places. For all his rudeness, he was right. _Normal_ people don't wear masks."

Christine looked down, not realizing until now just how _terrible_ it had to be. Her only wish now was that things could be normal for him, and she found herself fantasizing briefly about a world where Erik wasn't the only one in a mask. A world where mask-wearing was just as commonplace as wearing a hat or gloves. A world where life was just one, huge, mundane masquerade...

Her eyes shot back up to Erik, now wide as the sea.

 _A masquerade!_

"Erik," she said quickly, "what if you weren't the only one in a mask?"

He stared at her for several seconds, his sadness momentarily replaced by utter confusion. "What do you mean?"

And, in her growing excitement, she couldn't control the wide smiling that was overtaking her face. "I have an idea."


	10. Conforming Noncomformists

**As always, thank you for reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

 **Conforming Noncomformists**

"What are you writing?"

Raoul looked up from his journal at his brother, who was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. The two were sitting in the living room, Raoul on the couch across from the lit fireplace, Philippe in an armchair in front of him. The older brother had been reading an old copy of _Othello_ , but had apparently stopped when he saw his younger sibling actually _writing_.

Raoul looked down at the journal, and realized with embarrassment that, although he was in the middle of the journal, every single previous page was filled with doodles and nonsensical thoughts.

"Just...planning," Raoul said.

"Planning?" Philippe said, frowning. "Planning what?"

"The guest list," he responded, fully ready for a lecture.

It was only a few weeks until Raoul's birthday, and so far, Philippe had taken it upon himself to invite almost every old and boring aristocrat in Paris to the party. And "party" was a stretch. With what Philippe had planned, the most exciting event would be a conservative dance with uptight men and women. He was sure he would even put a restriction on wine. The youngest person Philippe had invited was a distant cousin of Raoul's named Louise, who thought she was ten years older than she was and looked down at him constantly, despite barely making it past his shoulders.

And so Raoul had taken it upon himself to bring people he could tolerate.

"Raoul, you know I've already sent out the invitations," Philippe sighed.

"Not all of them," he said. "You forgot Emil and Meg."

"Emil and Meg aren't of the same social status as the other guests."

"That's why they are so high on my list."

Philippe rolled his eyes. "Raoul..."

"And it's not like they're _working_ class! They're new money. Their father owns three factories, Philippe."

Philippe looked at him and raised his eyebrows for a few moments, resembling a weary, sleep-deprived parent. Raoul only glared back. Why did he have to be such a _classist?_

"I suppose," he said, still looking at Raoul, "that there's no stopping you from inviting them, anyway?"

"No."

"Fine," he said, his voice sharp, and he looked down at _Othello_. Raoul didn't see his eyes move as he looked at the page. "Invite them. It'll be a societal hodgepodge."

Raoul smiled, feeling triumphant, and looked back down at the journal. "I do love a good hodgepodge."

Philippe never moved his eyes from the book. "Is that it, then? You've had that journal open for a good ten minutes."

"Well, no, that's not all," Raoul said. "I was also hoping to invite Erik. And also Christine, Gustave Daaé's daughter. I met her while taking lessons."

Philippe stared at him as if his hair had suddenly changed color.

Raoul blinked. "They're technically new money, as well," he explained.

"You want to invite Erik?" His voice was monotonous.

"Um..." Raoul shifted. "Yes?"

"Your _violin_ teacher, Erik? The one with the mask?" This was enough to make Philippe close his book. "I knew the lessons were going well, but I had no idea they were going _that_ well."

Raoul shrugged. "He's actually...very interesting. Good interesting. I didn't expect to get along with him."

"Well, I would rather you invite Erik than the Giry twins."

"The Giry twins are coming, too, Philippe."

"Of course, of course," Philippe sighed dismissively and leaned back in his chair. "And Christine, then? What is she like?"

"Very nice. She seems intelligent, as well, from what I can tell. She was born in Sweden."

"I see," he said, and then looked at Raoul strangely. "Why do you want to invite her?"

"Oh, well," he said, "I don't know. As I said, she's nice."

He continued giving him that odd expression, and Raoul tapped his pen to his paper uncomfortably. "What is it, Philippe?"

"Do you fancy her?"

Raoul stopped tapping his pencil abruptly. Taken aback by the question, he stared at him and sputtered. "No! No, I don't fancy _Christine_."

Philippe's eyebrows raised at his emphasis on the name. "Oh, but you fancy someone _else_?"

Raoul continued staring, wide-eyed, at his brother. He watched as a look of excitement crossed his features at the prospect of Raoul showing a mature, romantic interest in a respectable girl, someone more high-born than the daughter of a violinist. Then, he saw the expression crumble just as quickly as a realization stitched sprouted in his mind.

"It's Meg, isn't it?" he asked lowly.

Raoul's heart sank. He bit his lip and said nothing.

After a few seconds of silence, Philippe seemed to have his answer. He sighed deeply. "You know I would not approve of that union."

Raoul nodded, not surprised in the slightest. He looked down at his small list and began drawing circles under the words. There were a few seconds of silence while he felt Philippe's eyes on him.

"What, um..." Raoul cleared his throat. "What would you do if I acted on it?"

Philippe stitched his eyebrows. "Acted on what?"

"On my feelings." The circles grew more ragged. "If I _did_ marry Meg."

Philippe took a deep breath, and Raoul pursed his lips. He started coloring in the spaces between the circles. He heard his brother put the book on the side table by the couch, and saw him cross his legs in his peripheral vision.

"Nothing, Raoul."

Raoul stopped drawing and looked up, raising his eyebrows.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. What could I do? You would still live in this house. Still have your inheritance. I would not be happy, but you know me better than to think I would disown you. That's always seemed such a barbaric act. You can't dispose of blood just because you don't approve of their actions... All the same, I would not approve of the marriage."

Raoul pursed his lips. "It's just...I wouldn't want to marry anyone else."

Philippe widened his eyes and then let out a bark of a laugh. "Raoul, for God's sake! She's just one girl."

"That's not true."

The determined look in his eyes must have caught Philippe off guard. The older brother looked at him with surprise for a moment, and then whispered, "Do you _love_ her?"

Raoul looked back down at his journal. He stared at the name, written neatly in his most delicate font. Meg. Such a pretty name. _Meg._

"Yes."

The fire crackled behind Philippe as he watched his him. Raoul could feel his face begin to redden, but he wasn't sure he cared.

"I would be disappointed, Raoul," he said sternly. "And I wouldn't support it. But maybe starting a family would give you some responsibility. Even _if_ she's new money."

He looked up. The severity on his brother's face would have normally been enough to make him cower. But now, all he could do was smile.

This made his austerity soften. He sighed and looked away, tapping his fingertips on the arms of the chair. "All right. Well... Who else is on that list of yours, then?" He nodded toward the journal.

Raoul looked down. Meg. Emil. Erik. Christine. And, of course, the circles. "That's it."

"That's it? You spent an awfully long time on just writing down the names of four people."

Raoul simply smiled and shrugged.

* * *

"Well then? How do I look?"

Erik stared, stunned. Christine stood in the doorway of her bedroom, looking absolutely beautiful. Her yellow curls were perfectly in place, and her pink dress hugged her lovely form.

But the thing that stood out was the black and white mask, feathers of the same shades peeking out from the top. Small diamond-looking jewels encrusted the edges of the mask, and the almond-shaped slits displayed her blue eyes marvelously.

On anyone else, he was sure the mask would have looked ridiculously gaudy, but he couldn't help but be amazed at how she did it justice.

"Erik?" Christine said, frowning.

He blinked, realizing he'd been staring. He cleared his throat. "Christine," he said, "you look...beautiful."

She gave a small smile and looked down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. For some reason, that small gesture made his chest give a little lurch.

"Thank you," she said. She looked up again. "And now, if _I'm_ in a mask, people might not think it's so strange that _you're_ in one."

Erik sucked in air sharply between his lips as he looked at her. "You would go out in a mask, just to make me less uncomfortable? You would really do that?"

Christine looked at him for a long moment, before moving forward and taking his hands. At the contact and the closeness, Erik felt his heart race and his mind go fuzzy. It was a wonder he wasn't trembling.

"Of course I would, Erik," she said, looking into his eyes. "You're my friend. My only friend, actually. I want you to be comfortable. So if you have to wear a mask outside, then so do I."

Erik felt his hands involuntarily tighten, just slightly, around hers. He allowed the sensation of his beating heart to overtake him. And, as he looked at her, he felt the sudden, overwhelming desire to kiss her.

To put his lips against hers and pull her close to him. To let his hand wander into her soft, thick hair, while his other found her waist and traced the curve where the side of her back met her hip. And then, to open his mouth ever so slightly...

No. He blinked. This was Gustave's daughter... Good God! He couldn't be thinking such vile thoughts about Christine. Just because he found her attractive...

And he _did_ find her attractive. So, so attractive...

"Thank you," he whispered, before his thoughts could escape him again.

She smiled. "Of course. So, does that mean you will come to dinner with me?"

He nodded, hardly believing what he was agreeing to. But, as he gazed at her, he felt that he would have jumped off the roof if she asked.

Why did she have to be so beautiful?

* * *

"Table for two, please."

The restaurant seemed to be bustling, busy for a Monday night. Night was beginning to settle in, and the streetlights shone above them, casting the building in a dim yellow hue. They were at the front of the line, with three more parties behind them. Already they had been given a few looks of odd regard, but when she had bowed her head a bit, they smiled and looked away, apparently content that the person behind her mask was perfectly nice and sane. Perhaps, they may have thought, she was simply on her way to a masked ball.

And, if the girl was normal, the boy next to her had to be.

And so Erik seemed to sigh in relief when people turned their attention somewhere else rather quickly.

The host of _La Boulangerie de Paris,_ however, continued to stare at Christine and Erik with a look of deep confusion. Christine maintained a blissfully friendly attitude, even as the man looked at her with concern. She could feel Erik's tenseness beside her. So, still smiling, she slid her arm under his for comfort. Immediately, he seemed to ease.

"I'm sorry, Mademoiselle," the host said, stitching his eyebrows. "But...I have to inquire as to...what the masks are for?"

"Oh, of course," Christine said, smiling. "It does seem a bit strange, doesn't it? But apparently it's all the rage in America." She giggled. "Please don't tell us we are committing a fashion faux pas!"

Her sweet tone must have assuaged some of his fears, for his creased brow smoothed and he picked up a couple of menus. "I'm sure you're not. Well, then, if you would just follow me..."

Christine grinned at Erik, who was looking down at her gratefully, albeit still a bit stiff. Her arm still in his, they followed the host inside. People stared, as she expected, but Christine's friendly smile made them smile back and look away, whether from awkwardness or from a genuine understanding that nothing was wrong.

The host pulled out the chairs for Erik and Christine, and they nodded their thanks.

"Your server will be with you shortly," he said. " _Bon apetit_."

Christine turned to Erik, about to comment on the beauty of the restaurant, with its stone walls and small chandeliers hanging, but then her shoulders slumped as she watched him. He was looking around him, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. His fingers were drumming on the table nervously, and she could have cut his airtight tenseness with the butter knife that lay in front of her.

"Erik," she said softly.

His eyes turned to hers.

"It's all right." She smiled sadly. "Don't be so nervous."

He pursed his lips. "People are staring."

She looked. There were still several tables in the restaurant full of people looking at them, chatting amongst themselves as if in secret. Christine felt a momentary flare of annoyance. She could smile and be nice all she wanted, they were still looking at the tall, thin boy with the mask uncertainly. His nervousness must have only roused their concern; while she looked ready for a masquerade - for, the mask really was meant for a masquerade; it had been a gift from her grandfather, which is why she'd kept it through her journey to Paris - he looked like he was simply hiding his identity.

"Ignore them." She leaned in over the table. "They don't matter. So what if they are looking at you? That's their problem, not yours."

Erik stared at her for a moment, his expression not entirely readable. Then, he reached a tentative hand out over the table. Christine immediately reciprocated, putting her hand in his palm and long fingers.

"I can't tell you how thankful I am for what you're doing," he whispered.

She flushed beneath her mask. "It's nothing. Really."

"It _is_ something." There was an intensity in his eyes, and Christine couldn't place what it was, but it made her stomach give a pleasant dip. "To me."

And at that moment, it wasn't hard at all for either of them to ignore the stares of those around them.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! See you next time!**


	11. Hug and Kiss

**Enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

 **Hug and Kiss**

"Where _is_ my father, anyway?"

Erik and Christine were ascending the staircase, back home from their dinner. Christine was carrying a candle, lighting the way for both of them through the dark apartment.

"He's in Meaux," Erik said.

She glanced back at him, and Erik saw surprise in her eyes. "Meaux? When did he leave?"

"This morning." He glided his fingers along the railing as they walked. "He'll be back tomorrow afternoon."

They reached the top of the stairs. As Erik came to the last step, right behind her, she turned to face him and sighed.

"I suppose he had a performance there?"

Erik nodded. "It should be happening right now, actually."

"And no one told me?"

She said it in more of a curious tone than an angry one. Not frustrated to be left out of information, just wondering as to why.

Erik raised an eyebrow underneath the mask. "Would it have made a difference?"

She looked away. "I don't know." Her brow stitched. "I don't really know if it ever will."

Erik stared at her. "You... _are_ going to talk to him, aren't you?"

Her eyes went to his, and he saw with a pang that sadness had taken over her expression. "Yes. I will. I told you that. But that doesn't mean we're going to get along." She leaned against the wall of the upstairs hallway, and Erik saw her shadow behind her become shorter and crisper in the light of the candle. "That fight between him and me got out of hand. I lost my temper. It's just...Erik you don't understand. Being near him; it's hard. Just looking at him makes me angry. All my life I was told he abandoned me. But now, I'm being told the opposite. And I want to believe my father. I want to believe that he really wanted me. You don't know how much I want to believe that." She looked down at the flame. "It does kind of make sense. It explains why he's so adamant that I trust him. If he had abandoned me, he probably _would_ be a lot more passive toward me. But my father's nervousness and his reciprocal anger...it makes me question my grandfather. And that's what is making me so upset. More upset, I think, than I would be if my father _didn't_ care."

Erik felt his heartstrings tug at her openness with him. She was telling him how she was feeling. She _trusted_ him.

"Why does that make you more upset?" he asked gently.

She continued looking dow at the flame, and he saw its white-yellow reflection in her blue depths. Then, to his regret, he saw her eyes begin to glisten with tears and her cheeks flush.

"Um..." she said, her voice shaky. "It's hard to explain."

"That's all right," he said quickly. Watching her cry was the very last thing he wanted. "You don't have to."

There was a long silence between them, and when Christine finally spoke, it was in a low and still-quivering voice. "No," she said. "I'll explain." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "If I believe my father, it means that I have to accept that my grandfather may have lied. And I am afraid to replace my trust for one with trust for the other. It makes me feel like I would be replacing my grandfather. Like I would...like I would be letting him _go_."

On the word "go", her voice broke, and along with it the dam that was keeping the tears from falling. She blinked, and in an instant her cheeks were covered with shimmering trails.

Erik realized that this was the emotion that was lurking behind everything he'd seen in her. That beyond her smiles and confidence, and even anger, was anguish. And she'd tried to keep it covered, to bottle it up. But now the bottle's cork had popped under pressure.

"I don't want to let him go. I want him back." The tears were falling in a steady stream now, wetting her jaw. She wiped away the tears with a free hand. "I miss him. And I miss Sweden. I miss my friends. I miss my house on the water, and the flowerbeds just outside my window. I miss the musty old bookstore and the enormous tree outside the church. I want my life, Erik. I want to go _home_. I want my grandfather. _I want him back_."

Erik couldn't take it anymore. It was the most difficult thing he'd had to do in so long, to stand there and watch her cry. It was agony.

He wanted to take her into his arms and just hold her, to absorb all of the pain she was feeling into himself. He would rather feel what she was feeling ten times than watch her suffer through it.

He wanted to reach out his hands and hold her sweet, precious face. He wanted to lean down and graze his lips against her wet cheeks and kiss the tears away until all of the sadness was wiped away.

But he wasn't allowed. Even if she hadn't been Gustave's daughter, he knew deep down that he wasn't allowed to touch her that way. Erik wasn't supposed to touch beautiful people.

Who was it that told him that? Someone did. Someone had constantly reminded him.

As he tried to remember, he saw suddenly in his mind's eye a very tall, very lovely woman, standing at the kitchen table, begrudgingly frosting a cake.

It was his birthday, and she had told him he could have a present. And so he'd asked to be kissed. He'd never experienced it before, and wanted to know what it was like.

Of course, he made sure not to be selfish; he didn't want too _many_ kisses. Just one.

But at this small request, she had looked at him with terrible, raw horror, as if he had asked her to do the very thing she feared most.

 _"You must never ask for that, Erik! Do you understand me? You must never, ever ask for that!"_

 _"Look at yourself in the mirror, Erik! Do you see that? Do you see why I don't ever want to touch you?"_

 _"If you weren't here, I would start a new life, where no one knows who I am! I would marry a handsome man and start a family with beautiful children! But because of you, I am trapped in this hellhole of a town, with people who look down on me for mothering a monster! I hate you, Erik! I hate you!"_

"Erik?"

He gave a start as Christine's voice pulled him back to the present reality.

She was looking at him with deep concern, her face still wet from tears. "Are you all right?" she asked. "You were staring at the wall behind me, and you started breathing in and out rather heavily."

He put his hand up to the wall and curled his fingers in embarrassment. He'd had flashes of his childhood like this before, but never in front of other people. If she hadn't interrupted him, he was sure he would have spiraled into a memory-induced panic.

"Yes, I'm all right," he said. He pursed his lips. "I simply got distracted."

"Distracted? Distracted by what."

His fingers curled deeper, and he felt his nails dig into his palm. "Nothing. Sorry."

She stared at him a few moments longer, before she looked down shamefully. "No, I'm sorry. I caused that reaction, didn't I?"

He looked at her in surprise. "You? No, no, of course not! Why would you have caused my..."

"I made you anxious," she said. She wiped her cheek again. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"Christine!" He took a step forward. "No! No, I am so glad you told me how you are feeling. I promise you that look I had had nothing to do with you. I sometimes get lost in thought. That's all." He put a hand out to place on her shoulder, but hesitated, and put his hand down. "I am only glad that you feel you can trust me."

Christine, having noticed his hesitation, grabbed his hand for herself. Erik felt joy spread through his chest at the touch.

Even if he couldn't touch her, there was no reason she couldn't touch him.

"Erik," she whispered. "I just don't know what to do. I don't know what to feel. I can't accept my father if it means pushing my grandfather out."

Tears were beginning to again well up in her eyes, and Erik, without hesitation, led her to a chair in the upstairs hallway. He sat her down and, making sure not to pull his hand from hers, he took the candle from her and put it on the side table next to her. As she watched him, her eyes still wet, he got down on his knees in front of her, so that she was looking down at him.

To think he felt comfortable enough in her presence to get into this position.

The last time he was on his knees in front of someone was when his captor held him by the hair and beat his sides with a stick for not singing correctly in the fair performance.

But she was so sweet and kind to him, and _so_ pretty. He was safe looking up at her, not threatened.

"Christine," he started, and he watched as she sniffed. He would have offered her a handkerchief, but he didn't have any - there were certain benefits to not possessing a nose. "Accepting your father would not, in any way, push out your grandfather. No matter what, not matter how many people you allow into your heart, your grandfather will always be there. You can learn to love your father and still hold affection and memory for the man who raised you." He smiled sadly. "And I've never met your grandfather, but I believe I can say he loved you. Probably more than anything. Just like your _father_ loves you more than anything.

She stared at him. "He loves you."

"I'm just his student," he said softly. "You're his his daughter."

Christine continued gazing at him for several more seconds. And then, without warning, she threw her arms around his neck. She slid off the chair as Erik gasped and instinctively leaned back, entirely unused to being embraced. However, when he realized that he was, in fact, kneeling on the ground with Christine's face buried in his shoulder, he lifted his quivering arms to place them against her back. When he ventured a brave hand up to her hair, and found it every bit as soft as he'd imagined, she tightened her hug. He all but melted.

"When the time is right, I _will_ talk to him," she said softly into his ear.

He hoped she really did, because he wasn't sure he would be able to choose between them anymore without his heart breaking.

He closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "This is the first time I've been embraced."

She stiffened, and then pulled away, eyes wide in disbelief. "What?" she breathed.

"My mother wasn't affectionate," he said, still dizzy from the contact. "She's didn't believe in...touch. She's the one who gave me the mask. She didn't want to see me."

Christine was looking at him as if he told her the world had ended. She whispered, "What about my father?"

"He would...put his arm around my shoulders sometimes," he explained. "But I would always shy away. I wasn't used to it. I think he thought it made me uncomfortable, so he stopped after a while."

" _Did_ it make you uncomfortable?"

"No. I jus had no idea how to react."

She was still staring at him, wide-eyed. "Your mother really never hugged you?"

"No."

"So I'm guessing she didn't kiss you, _either_?" Her tone was suddenly angry, but her eyes remained deeply concerned.

He gulped. He shook his head, trying his best to push out that horrid memory that was making its way to the surface again.

 _"You must never ask for that, Erik!"_

Then, as if answering to his most wild fantasies, she once again leaned in for the hug. But, this time, she lifted herself up slightly and pressed her lips to his temple. She held her lips there for several seconds, Erik breathless the entire time, until she finished her kiss and pulled away. Her head was then once again resting on his shoulder.

It was a friendly kiss. A family kiss. A kiss that lacked any kind of deeper meaning other than a simple "I care about your well-being."

But, at that basic gesture of uncomplicated affection, it still took every ounce of strength for Erik not to weep.

* * *

 **It's 2 in the morning and I am sobbing over these losers.**

 **Goodnight. I need sleep.**


	12. Belief and Relief

**Hello!**

 **Read on, my loves!**

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

 **Belief and Relief**

It was hard for Erik to focus on teaching when he was so wrapped up in guilt.

The past two weeks, he realized that he'd been avoidant of Gustave. It wasn't an intentional thing; more of a side effect of feeling in the way of his and his daughter's relationship. He didn't want to continue to act close to his teacher when Christine was around. If she felt replaced now, she would have felt even more so seeing her father affectionate with his student.

But in his passive reluctance to spend time with Gustave, he'd accidentally gotten close to Christine.

Very, emotionally close.

And over the course of mere hours, at that.

Now, rather than replacing Christine for Gustave, he'd replaced Gustave for Christine.

"Hello? Erik?"

Erik snapped to attention as Raoul stared at him, his violin in his hand. The two of them were standing in the parlor, their lesson halfway through.

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked you how that was," said Raoul. He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you hear me?"

Erik sighed. "I suppose I'm a bit out of sorts today. How about a two minute break, and then we can get back to practice. All right?"

He nodded.

Erik went to the bench of the piano and sat. He didn't plan on playing, but somehow being near the instrument comforted him. Any musical instrument comforted him.

"By the way, Erik," Raoul said. He put his violin against the wall of the parlor and then turned toward him. "I was hoping to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Well," he started, and went to take a seat on the couch, "my birthday is coming up this Saturday, and I'm hosting a party. Mostly my brother's friends, but a couple of mine as well. Anyway, I was hoping you would consider attending?"

Erik blinked in surprise. "Why do you want _me_ to come?"

Raoul shrugged. "Not enough people I like are going." He smiled. "Oh! And Christine can come if she wants as well. I would invite Monsieur Daaé, but I don't actually know him. Of course, if you think he'd like to come, you're welcome to ask him!"

Erik stared. He'd never been invited to a _party_ before. The idea sounded almost laughable. Him. Erik. At a birthday party.

He pursed his lips. His first instinct was to immediately decline, but he didn't want to be rude. It certainly wasn't that he didn't like Raoul. It was more that he didn't like the idea of standing in a room with fifty or more strangers, all in very close quarters. Closer quarters than the restaurant on Monday.

"I'll consider it."

* * *

Christine started down the staircase. She'd heard the door of the house open and then close, and then the familiar sound of her father's voice conversing with Erik. As she reached the bottom steps, she could hear their words coming from the parlor. Timidly, she made her way to the doorway and peered in at the two of them. Her father was sitting, uncasing his violin, a suitcase at his side, and Erik was standing with his hands behind his back.

"So the journey was good, then?" Erik said.

"Not the worst I've had, my boy," her father sighed. Bags were hanging under his eyes. "I could have done without the uncomfortable bed and the rocky carriage ride, though."

As Gustave spoke, Erik's eyes wandered to the doorway and found Christine, who pursed her lips. Gustave put the case next to his suitcase. He moved from the couch and placed his violin on a wooden stand by the piano, right next to Erik's.

"I should go...practice," Erik said awkwardly, looking from Christine to her father. "I can bring your things up to your room, sir, if you would like."

Gustave never looked up from the violin, but Christine could see from his body language that he was disappointed. "Yes," he said softly. "Yes, all right. We will have to talk later, then."

"Of course," said Erik, and picked up the cases. He walked toward the doorway, staring at Christine intently. As he passed her, he leaned in slightly and whispered, barely audible, "He's not in the best of moods."

She looked at him, and she knew from his words and the expression in his eyes that he was warning her not to talk to him right now. She considered for a second slinking away back to her bedroom and putting the conversation off another day. But the thought made her feel cowardly. So, she simply smiled at Erik and nodded in understanding. He blinked, looked down and sighed, and walked away.

Gustave had picked up the violin again, semi-backing the doorway. He had apparently noticed something wrong with the strings, because he was tuning the instrument, all the while looking like he was suffering from an intense migraine.

She took a deep breath and stepped in.

"How was your day yesterday?" she asked. Her father turned around and raised his eyebrows in surprise. He put the violin back down.

"I performed. Performances are usually good. How was your day?"

His voice was monotoned, Christine noticed, her heart sinking. Maybe this wasn't the best time.

Nonetheless, she remembered her promise to Erik to talk to him. She needed to get this over with.

She'd already worked up enough courage to do this now. She wasn't sure when she would be able to work it up again.

"It was good. I asked Erik to go out to eat dinner with me."

He stared at her, and as he did, she could see his tiredness shortening his patience, even at such a small and innocent statement.

"Did your _grandfather_ teach you to be so forward with boys?"

She felt immediately smacked in the face. At her shocked expression, he closed his eyes and cringed in regret. He lifted a hand and put his thumb on his chin and his forefinger on his forehead.

Well.

She supposed it _was_ rather forward. She hadn't thought of that until now.

It was certainly a good thing she didn't mention the hug or the kiss...which were, in retrospect, far too "friendly" for a young lady from a respectable household. But she had felt so desperate for closeness, for a friendship with someone, that it had just happened.

"Maybe I wouldn't be so forward if I wasn't so lonely," she responded darkly.

"No." He put his hand down and looked at her severely. "No, I am not in the mood for an argument with you. I'm sorry I said that. I can be unkind when I have a headache." His severe expression deepened. "Is there anything else, Christine? Or did you wish to again accuse me of being a scoundrel and a liar?"

She paused. "Erik wanted me to talk to you."

"Talk or yell?"

"Talk."

Gustave looked at her, his expression exhausted. After a few seconds, he sighed and made his way to the couch. He sat and gestured to the armchair for her to sit. "All right."

She obliged. When she sat, she smoothed down her dress and cleared her throat, holding her hands tightly together in her lap. "I would like you to be completely honest with me."

"I've been nothing but honest."

She paused, staring at him. His lips were thinned under his dark mustache, and he crossed his arms stiffly.

"Did you," she said slowly, "or did you not, want to give me up as a child?"

He closed his eyes and exhaled. When they opened, he looked up at the ceiling. "No. I told you this. I did not."

"If you did," she continued carefully, tightening her grip on her own hands, "I would rather you just say it. That way, we can let the truth out, and move on from there."

"Christine..." He looked at her again, his entire face hard. "I am telling you the truth. I swear on my career; I swear on my life, on your life, on Erik's life; I swear to _God_. I did not want to give you up as a child."

She bit her lip. She wanted to believe him, but... "You shouldn't swear on those things if you're lying."

"Christine!" he growled. He pounced up, and she had to lean back in her chair at the sudden rage that had evolved from his previous mere annoyance. His shoulders and arms were stone at his side, and every line on his face was pronounced. "I've had a long journey. I'm tired. I'm in pain. I do not want to do this right now!" He began stalking from the parlor, but when he reached the center of the room, he paused. His body suddenly spun to face her, and his expression as he stared down at her was every bit as angry as before, but now she could see traces of anguish.

"I don't know what you want from me!" he yelled. "I don't know what I can possibly say or do! I really don't. What do you want, Christine? What the Hell do you want?"

As father and daughter faced each other, Christine felt tears begin to well up in her eyes and her face flush over. For the past couple of weeks, she'd had the upper hand. It had been him under her angry thumb, but now their roles were reversed. He no longer had any patience for her wrath. All of her power was stripped away. The one thing she still had control over was gone.

"I want to go home," she whispered, her vision blurring from wetness. She felt a drop of water roll down her hot cheeks.

His expression softened and his body relaxed. He took a step toward her. " _This_ is your home now. I'm sorry, Christine."

The tears only came down more readily, and her heart weighed too much for her to care.

She looked down, but saw his feet move back toward the couch. She heard him sit and give a deep, weary sigh. "I want to _make_ this your home," he said softly. "But you won't let me."

"If you are telling the truth like you say you are," she said shakily, and she stared at the red Persian design of the carpet, "why would my grandfather lie like that?"

"Maybe he didn't want you to think ill of him."

Christine looked back up at him as another tear came. He appeared sad now, caring, and not at all angry. He looked like he was putting in every gallon of effort to push out his tiredness and irritation to show empathy. He looked, Christine realized with another pang in her heart... _fatherly_.

"He said you thought that I was a burden," she whispered. "That I was dead weight."

Her father closed his eyes and shook his head very slightly. He stayed like that for a couple of seconds, and then opened his eyes and looked at her again, and she knew the pain in his eyes was not only physical now.

"Stay here," he said softly, and arose from his seat. He walked slowly from the room, and she heard his footsteps thump up the stairs.

Christine stayed put, moving her hands across her still-warm cheeks, trying her best to dry them. Her eyes, she realized as she moved to them, were soaked through. It took two or three dabs of the back of her hand to removed every tear from them.

God, she _hated_ crying. The only good it did was give your head a severe beating.

Gustave reappeared in the doorway. As he walked back to the couch and sat on the seat closest to her chair, he was staring down at something that was glittering in his hands. He stitched his eyebrows as he held the thing out for her to see. When she looked, she saw a silver locket, round and polished and simple, but entirely beautiful.

On it, in very small lettering, was the name: _Christine_.

Shocked and prompted at the sight of her name, she took it from it and held it, her eyes wide.

Her father spoke quietly, "If I thought you were a burden, or dead weight... Christine, if I did not want you, why would I have kept this for seventeen years?"

Indeed, it did seem to be rusting around the edges. When she opened it up, she saw even more metal decay. Seventeen years definitely seemed fairly accurate.

"I keep this in a drawer in my bedroom, safe underneath a pile of clothes," he explained. "I don't ever want to lose this. It was the only thing I had left of you."

"It's beautiful."

"I spent every last coin I had on this."

She looks up at him. He was staring at the locket, at the inscription of _Christine_ , as if it were his most prized possession. When his eyes moved to her, that expression didn't falter.

"Will you please listen to my side of the story?"

She nodded, dumbfounded.

"I loved your mother more than anything," he said, his expression unquestionable. "I did not marry her just to _sleep_ with her." He spat the word _sleep_. "I married her because she was my _reason_ for _living_. But she was from a well-to-do family. And I was a poor musician. Your grandfather did not want his daughter married to someone like me. But she did. And he hated me for it."

Christine didn't entirely doubt that aspect; her grandfather, although generally kind, often made unfair comments about the poor. How they did it to themselves. How it was their own fault for not working harder.

"When you were born, your mother died," he continued. "You were literally all I had left. But your grandfather used his position in the law to slowly usher you away from me. It was not long before I couldn't even visit you. I was heartbroken, Christine. That's why I left. I couldn't bear to be in the same town as my daughter if I could not even see her."

"You would have seen me," she said softly. She looked down at the locket, and watched as the light of the afternoon hit it, sending a piercing whiteness across her name, and then brought her gaze back up to him. "Eventually. After I grew up. Left my grandfather's house. You could have seen me then."

His face collapsed. "People do rash things when their world falls apart. At the time, it really didn't seem like I would _ever_ see you again."

She grimaced, twisting the locket left to right absentmindedly. "But why would he _do_ that?"

"Because he loved you. You were his only child's daughter, and you were all _he_ had left, too. He wanted to give you the best life possible, and he didn't think that would be with me. I do understand why he did it." He raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps, if I had been in his place, I would have done it, too."

As Christine looked at the complete distressed sincerity on his face, and then looked down at the silver object that was his only physical evidence of proof, she couldn't help it. She was struck down with a blend of solace and understanding.

She believed him.

And the relief that she felt at that idea, that he really did want her, was more than she expected. She expected to feel upset if she knew her grandfather truly did what she now knew what he did. But she didn't.

She could try to move on, now. And she could have a relationship with a man she believed never wanted one. She could have a father.

She sobbed, and clutched the locket to her chest.

"You really wanted me?" she cried.

"Yes," he said. His own voice was shaky, and his eyes were rapidly growing as red as hers. "Oh, my god. Yes. And I still do. I love you, Christine, with all of my heart. Even after all these years apart from you, you have no idea how much I love you." He sniffed. "Do you believe me?"

Her whole body shook as she nodded. He smiled.

"If we can," he continued softly, "I would like to start over. We can go slow. Get to know each other. If you are willing to do that, it would make me enormously happy."

Again, she nodded. It felt so surreal, talking about building a relationship with her _father._

"How about you come to a performance?" he asked, suddenly excited. "This Friday - tomorrow? I'm going to be playing at the Second _Thèâtre-Français._ It's absolutely lovely. I think you'll like it."

It took a few moments for Christine to calm down. When she did, she gave a sigh, and looked at her father. "Should we invite Erik?"

He took this as her consent, and grinned. "We can ask him. But I don't know what he will say. He's always been a bit...odd...about going to public events."

Christine smiled slightly. If she had gotten him to go to a restaurant, she might be able to get him to come to this as well.

It would be nice, now that she felt comfortable around her father, to all do something together.

Like a proper family.


	13. Father and Son

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

 **Father and Son**

Erik was coerced, through sheer need to please Gustave and Christine, to go to the performance.

And not only that, but when Christine found out about Raoul's party, she had gotten so excited by the concept, he simply couldn't bring himself to say he didn't want to go.

 _What_ was _happening_ to him? He used to be a perfect hermit, and now? He was _socializing_. With the _public_.

Early Friday morning, Erik trotted down the steps and found his way into the kitchen. He plucked an apple from the fruit basket and walked into the dining room, to find Gustave already at the table, leaning back in his chair and flipping through a violin score, humming with a face of concentration along to the notes.

When he saw Erik walk in, he gave a small smile and put the score down, sitting up straight.

"Good morning, Erik," he said kindly.

Erik smiled back. He took a seat in a chair across from him. "Good morning, sir."

He bit into apple with his bottom teeth; it was the only way he could eat with the mask covering his upper lip.

"Erik," Gustave said, "are you sure that you want to come to the performance tonight?"

Erik looked at him and nodded slowly. "I already said that I would."

"But you can change your mind. If you would like."

Erik knew why Gustave was being so tentative about the idea of him coming along. His teacher had tried to get him to come to performances when he was thirteen and fourteen, but whenever he entered into the crowds of performance spaces, his breathing would shallow and his vision would blur. As the only person he trusted was onstage, he had nothing to cling onto for comfort. He would disappear from the crowds, and Gustave would find him shaking and breathing heavily in a corner somewhere.

A few more instances of this and Gustave deemed it perfectly acceptable if Erik never wanted to watch him perform.

"I will be all right. Christine will be with me."

Gustave's eyes brightened. "So you two really have become friends."

Erik nodded. He thought of Christine's smiling face, of her small and warm hands as she took his. He thought of her willingness to wear a mask just to make it less conspicuous that he wore won. He thought of the way she had so readily given him a bit of physical affection when she found out he'd never experienced it.

It was unbelievable.

He was her _friend_.

And she was his.

"I wanted to thank you again for getting Christine to talk to me." Gustave sighed. "I have been such a coward about the whole situation. I..."

"You haven't been a coward."

"I have." His smile grew sad. "I have been so afraid of how she feels toward me. I kept hoping she would come around, learn to accept and believe me, but I should have been the one to truly approach her. To really attempt to have that conversation about the truth with her. But I was afraid. I don't even know why I was afraid...I think, deep down, I really did feel like I gave up on her. Like I should have fought harder to keep her from her grandfather. Every time I looked at her, I felt like a guilty child who knows he did something wrong but doesn't want to really admit it."

"But there _was_ nothing you could have done," Erik said steadily, placing his bitten apple onto the table.

"But what if I could have found a way to get her back?" He shook his head, his eyes far away. "I should have fought harder."

He looked at his surrogate father with sadness. "It's easy to give up when everything seems hopeless. It would have taken a will of iron to stick around."

"And I have a will of water." He started tracing the shapes of the music notes with his index finger. "Maybe I _don't_ deserve her understanding."

"But she does understand, sir. That's all that matters."

"I suppose," he said, nodding, but he seemed unconvinced. He exhaled heavily and put his face in his hands. "Erik, you always seem to treat me with such _respect_. I don't deserve it. I really, really don't."

Erik was taken aback. "That's not true, sir, of course you do."

"No." He looked at him with severity. "No, I don't. I _am_ a coward. I have been my entire life. I ran away from home to be a musician because I was scared to follow the life my own father wanted for me. Then I ran away from Sweden because I was too afraid to lose a battle for my own daughter. _Then_ I continued to run away from a conversation with my daughter because I was afraid to _admit_ that I constantly _run_. You act like I'm a great man; you continue to call me 'sir' and bow and treat me as though I were some kind of hero. I'm not. I never have been."

Erik stared at him in shock, having forgotten completely about the apple. He had no _idea_... Of course he was a hero. If it hadn't been for him...

"Sir," he said slowly, "if it hadn't been for you, I can guarantee that my life would be in complete disarray."

Gustave gazed at him steadily. "I'm sure someone would have taken you in."

"Then why _did_ _n't_ anyone?"

He sighed. "I was just the first to do it. It would have happened eventually."

Erik felt his heart rate begin to quicken. Anger, he realized, was quickly pulsating through his veins. How could he insult himself like this? Gustave, the first person in the entire world to show Erik any kind of kindness, believed he _wasn't_ a _hero_? He believed he was a _coward_?

"No," Erik said darkly. Gustave looked at him, surprised at his sudden fierce tone. "No, it would not have happened."

"Erik, I can't be the only person who would have helped you."

"Well, you were. Sir, I don't think you understand exactly how much you changed my life."

He sighed. "You give me _far_ too much credit."

"No. I don't." Erik could feel his pulse in his wrists. "I don't give you _enough_ credit."

Gustave stared at him. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Most of the reason that I took you in," he said softly, "was because I was lonely. That's it. I wanted... _needed_...someone to take care of, someone to pass on what I know to. Erik, had I had a family, I am not sure that I _would_ have taken you in. I accepted you into my home because I was scared of being truly alone forever. _Because I am a coward_."

 _"You're not a coward!_ " Erik stood up, seething. He'd never gotten angry at Gustave before, but then he'd never had his teacher insult the one thing he cared most about. "I don't care if the reason you took me in was because someone held a _gun to your head_. I don't care! I am telling you that no one else would have ever accepted me, _especially_ not after I tried to steal from them! I would have been made to remove my mask, been tortured, been beaten...I would have had to hide and steal forever. There's a reason I hate people. A reason I panic when the thought of losing my privacy enters my mind. My life was Hell before you allowed me to live here, and it would be Hell still, had it not been for you."

As Gustave stared, gaping and wide-eyed at him, Erik felt compelled to say something else; something that would put him back below his teacher, where he belonged.

"I have the face of a demon, the features of a corpse," he whispered. "Never once have you asked to see my appearance. Never once have you questioned the mask. But now you call yourself a coward, and I won't accept that. A coward would not have had the courage to care for and teach a monster."

Gustave's face blanched. "You're not a monster," he said, his voice cracking. "No, my boy, no. You are a kind and gentle soul. I don't care what you look like. You are not a monster."

"And now," Erik whispered, his voice shaking, "now, even as I _tell_ you I am a monster, you continue to call me _your boy_. How _dare_ you call yourself a coward?"

"Erik!" Gustave got up, his face still white as parchment. He laid his hands on the table and leaned in. "A deformity does not make you a monster. _You are not a monster!_ "

"Yes. I am. I have and I always will be."

Gustave looked at him with fire in his eyes. He looked just as angry at Erik calling himself a monster as Erik felt at Gustave calling himself a coward.

" _What happened to you_?" His voice was low. "Who told you that you're anything less than human? _Who did that to you_?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. I will personally hunt them down."

"You will have to hunt down my mother, then." Erik's heart was pounding. He'd never revealed any of this to Gustave, but he couldn't stop. "Hunt down the man who kidnapped me and put me in a cage in a fair. Hunt down every single person who lined up to view my face, paid handsomely to see ' _The Living Corpse_ '. Hunt down the world, because the world has never seen me as anything but a beast."

There was a long silence between them. Erik could hear a buzzing in his ears as his entire body throbbed uncontrollably. He'd just revealed everything. It was all out in the open. He may as well have just taken his mask off completely.

Gustave was staring at him with horror. But it wasn't the same kind of horror people had looked at him with in the traveling fair. It was an empathetic horror. Gustave was horrified _for him._

"Oh, God, Erik," Gustave said shakily. "Oh. _Erik. My son._ "

At those words, something inside of Erik broke. These past few days had been so full of emotion, of experiences that Erik had never dreamed of having, but this was what did him in. Gustave had called Erik "son" before, and he had called him "my boy". But never, not once, had he called him, "my son". He had always told him he was _like_ a son to him, but Gustave had never claimed him as his official child.

It was too much. To be offered friendship by a stunningly beautiful girl, to be treated as any other by her, and then to be _embraced_ and _kissed_ by her. And then to have the one person he had ever looked up to really, truly claim him as his own. _It was too much._

Erik let out a heavy sob and, shaking, fell to his seat. He couldn't stop the quakes that were racking him or the heavy ins and outs of breath that came with crying. He couldn't stop the tears from pouring from his eyes.

He was a _monster._ Hadn't he just told Gustave that? Didn't he understand how incredibly unworthy he was? How could Gustave want him for his actual son when he was a demon? He didn't understand. None of this made sense.

Why would Christine want to be his friend?

Why would Gustave want to be his father?

He didn't _deserve it_!

Erik saw Gustave walk quickly around the table. He barely knew what was happening as he put his hand on the back of his shoulder and pulled. Erik obediently got up, still shaking, as Gustave pulled him into his arms.

Erik sobbed so deeply he was almost dizzy.

"I know being hugged makes you uncomfortable, but..." Gustave began in a sad whisper.

"It doesn't." Erik cried. "It doesn't. It doesn't."

"The way you were treated," he said, "weighs no bearing on who you are as a person. You are one of the most spectacular people I have ever met in my life, Erik. And you are not a monster. You never have been, and you never will be."

Erik still didn't believe him, but he nodded regardless. Gustave tightened his hold.

And Erik just cried. In his heart, he felt something he'd never experienced before. It warm and comfortable and so, so happy.

He'd loved before. He'd loved his mother, though it was beyond clear she hadn't felt the same way. He'd loved music his entire life. And, of course, he loved Gustave the way any son would love a father.

For of _course_ he had considered him his father. He'd never dared to say it out loud, or even completely think it. But he had always, always felt it.

But now he knew he was a son to Gustave.

 _He felt loved_.

For the first time, he knew, in his mind and heart, that he was loved.

* * *

At the sound of yelling downstairs, Christine had woken up from her sleep.

Something was wrong.

She leapt out of bed and hurried down the steps, only to hear the exchange between Erik and her father. As she stood at the wall outside the dining room, still in her nightgown, she could hear Erik calling himself a monster - to Christine's complete dismay - and Gustave insisting that he wasn't. And then...oh, God, and then Erik telling of his past. Of the mother she was quickly beginning to hate and of the traveling fair.

Christine had wanted to gag.

And then Gustave had called him his son. And Erik cried.

But she hadn't felt jealous as she had before by the concept.

She felt happy. Relieved. There was no reason to be jealous anymore, but there was every reason to celebrate that Erik had a family. A loving family.

Something it was clear he had never had before.

When she peeked in, just enough for her to see them but for them to not likely see her, she watched as Gustave embraced him.

And then she smiled and crept back up the stairs, leaving father and son to enjoy in their moment.


	14. Quiver and Bow

**It's my spring break, so I had time to write a couple chapters in two days :) Granted, this is not the longest chapter I've written, but the next chapter's length will make up for it.**

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

 **Quiver and Bow**

"So, your birthday party is tomorrow. Excited?"

Emil was walking a little ahead of Raoul through the park, the afternoon sky turning darker blue in preparation for evening. Raoul's homeschooling lessons with Philippe were done for the day, as were Emil's regular school lessons. It was something of a routine for them: Raoul would run to Emil's school before the bell tolled that lessons were over, and the two boys would walk through the park (the shortest route back to Emil's apartment).

Emil was dressed in his neatly pressed blue school uniform, but somehow, in his eyes, he still managed to look unruly. As if he were a storm contained in a box.

"I should be excited," Raoul responded. He jogged to catch up as Emil sprinted forward to kick a rock on the cobblestone path. "But Philippe is bringing all these people I just...honestly cannot stand."

"So? When they come to the door, tell them they're a day late. Then, when they leave, us two can open a few bottles of wine and party like it's the French Revolution."

Emil found another stone and punted it.

Raoul wrinkled his nose. "How would we do that exactly?"

"Oh, you know. Drink until we're blind. Eat chocolate cake. Slice the heads clean off the aristocracy."

Raoul grinned. "So _that's_ what you're getting me for my birthday."

"What better way to celebrate two decades on Earth than a brand new guillotine?"

They kept walking, and then, as they approached the opening of the gate surrounding the park and leading out into the Paris streets, Raoul saw a pair of people sitting on a bench just on the edge of the cobblestone path. It looked like a very old man and a very young woman with auburn hair. At their feet sat a dog, and Raoul watched as the young girl smiled and sighed as the old man reached down, with extremely shaky hands, to pat the dog on the head.

In fact, Raoul realized, it wasn't just his hands that were shaking. His entire body seemed to quiver, as if his age was physically exhausting him.

The young woman looked up at Raoul and smiled slightly, bowing her head in greeting. He returned the gesture as he and Emil walked past and made their way into the street.

The moment they turned the corner and began toward Emil's apartment, Emil burst out laughing, much to Raoul's surprise.

"What?" Raoul asked, perplexed. He looked around him, but he couldn't find anything remotely out of the ordinary. "What's so funny?"

Emil's face was split open in a wide grin. "Did you _see_ that old man?"

He stitched his eyebrows. "I...yes? And?"

Emil continued to giggle, and Raoul couldn't tell if he was more unnerved or embarrassed by the fact that he couldn't find the humor. What was so funny about the old man?

Emil stopped and, as if in a game of charades, he changed his demeanor. He hunched over slightly and screwed up his face. He pointed a finger toward a nearby tree, and made his entire arm quiver dramatically.

"Why, look, Raoul," he said in a raspy voice, "a tree! Goodness gracious, I remember when trees were invented. A splendid day, it was! I told the tree-maker how I think trees should look, and we were such good friends back then, that he took my advice. I told him, 'give them flaky, hard skin and limbs that shake in the wind, just like me'! That was thousands of years ago, but me, I am a _million_ years old..."

"Emil." Raoul knew he had gone white. "Emil, what the hell?"

Emil came out of his charade, still smiling. But when he saw the severe look on his friend's face, his smile disappeared.

"What?"

"What are you _doing_?"

For a moment, Emil looked flustered. Then, his cool confidence returned, and he crossed his arms. "I'm just jesting. What are _you_ doing? Don't you have a sense of humor?"

Raoul was definitely unnerved.

"Yes, but..." Raoul grimaced. "That wasn't...terribly kind. I mean, what if he'd heard you?"

Emil gave a half-smile. "Well, did he?"

"I don't think so, no, but..."

"Then who really cares! And so what if he'd heard me? Who's going to defend him? He certainly isn't going to do it. He'd be dead the moment he tried to lay a hand on me. Then what? The girl he was with?" He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Well. I certainly wouldn't mind wrestling _her_."

Raoul just continued to stare. He was used to Emil giving _him_ a hard time, but he'd always assumed it was playful banter between good friends. He'd never seen him make fun of other people.

"What do you think that relationship was, by the way?" Emil asked absently. "His daughter? Granddaughter? _Gre_ _at_ -granddaughter?" His eyes widened as he looked at Raoul with glee. "Or maybe that's his _wife_! Holy hell! Can you imagine? Being that old and capturing a thing like that?"

Raoul could feel his discomfort leaking into his temperament. He shifted and frowned. "I'm fairly certain she's a person, not a thing."

His friend rolled his eyes. "Oh, you _know_ what I _mean_!" He scoffed. "And will you please loosen up? God, this is why I hold my humor back with you. You take everything so damn seriously. 'Oh! I'm Raoul! I just want to sit in the park, sing about love and peace, and feed my birds!' You're such a _pansy_ compared to my school friends. Apparently these jokes are too low-brow for your high-born ears."

Raoul felt his face go red. "Can we just...forget about this, please? Just, pretend it didn't happen?"

"Are you going to continue being a little girl?"

He wanted to roll his eyes, but refrained. "No."

Emil smiled slowly and nodded. "Then absolutely." He gave Raoul a small push in the shoulder. "Now, let's go. We need to be quick or you'll get home late, and your brother will give you a spanking for missing your curfew."

He started to trot ahead of Raoul, who stood a few moments behind him, feeling perturbed by the whole exchange. Then, he let out a long sigh, and followed suit.

* * *

"How are you feeling? Are you all right?"

Erik was stiff as he and Christine walked though the house of the theatre toward their assigned seats. He was the only one in a mask this time. Christine had offered to wear hers, but Erik protested. He didn't want her to have to sacrifice her comfort for his. He'd practically told her he refused to go if she wore it. So Christine had smiled slightly, putting the mask away, and gave his hand a squeeze.

And his heart had continued beating hard for the next couple of minutes.

"I'm all right. Thank you," he said, though he could feel his anxiety levels rising. He led her down a row of seats toward their assigned places in the audience. They sat down together.

Already one of the ticket-takers had questioned the mask, to which Erik had tried desperately to think of a good enough reason to wear it without giving away the truth. Then, the other ticket-taker leaned in and explained to his co-worker that Gustave Daaé explicitly said a man in a mask was coming, and for it not to cause alarm. He was a personal guest of Gustave's.

And that had been that.

But now, people _were_ staring. The people next to Erik seemed to shrink instinctively away from him. And Erik's sudden shallow breathing could not have helped their comfort levels.

Apparently hearing his ragged breaths, Christine immediately slid her hand in his and held on. Within seconds, his breathing went back to normal.

He looked at her with fear still lingering in his eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.

She nodded, smiling. At the motion, a bit of light reflected off of something silver on her neck. It looked like a round pendant of some kind.

But his eyes didn't linger there for long. It was rude to look anywhere below a lady's face.

For about ten more minutes they waited for the show to start. Christine was talking about the theatre nonstop in a low voice; Erik doubted she was really interested in how the theatre looked. He suspected it was more for his benefit, to keep him distracted.

He got this sense because every time he seemed to let his mind wander to the fact that he was surrounded by what seemed to him like millions of people, she would point to something and act excited about a different facet of her surroundings. "Erik! Look at that! That's such a beautiful chandelier. How many crystals do you think went into making that? My guess is two hundred. But I've never been a very good guesser. What do you think?..." All the while, her hand stayed in his, squeezing it whenever his anxiety seemed to escalate.

He was incredibly grateful toward her.

And every time she distracted him, or squeezed his hand, he felt the urge to kiss her and hold her.

But, of course, he refrained. As hard as it was.

The theatre darkened, and the curtains went back, and there, onstage, was Gustave.

If he could just focus on his father and Christine, he could keep his anxiety levels down.

* * *

Gustave always lost himself in his music when he was performing. He picked a sweet melody to play first, specifically dedicated to the two most important people in his life, both of them sitting in the audience.

As he finished his first song, he took a low bow, and when he brought himself back up, he swore he could see the light reflecting off of Christine's silver locket, right in the center of the audience.


	15. Cry Wolf

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

 **Cry Wolf**

"This party is definitely...something."

Raoul looked up from his croissant as he leaned against the ballroom wall to see Emil approaching him, a glass of wine in his hands. It was almost seven-thirty, and Emil had already had several glasses. He was known for his high tolerance, but Raoul could still see a slightly lowered inhibition in his eyes.

"Well," he sighed, " _something_ is giving it credit."

He still felt annoyed at Emil for the way he'd acted the day before. He was trying his best to get over it - after all, this was his birthday party. He should be having fun. But he couldn't help the flares of anger that bubbled up when he looked at his friend.

Emil didn't seem to notice his annoyance in the slightest. He nodded, looking around the house. "Very true. This party is so _not_ the French Revolution. Too many aristocrats. Not enough guillotines. I say we get some peasants in here and liven up the place. Or...I guess the guillotines would liven _down_ the place, wouldn't they?"

Raoul, not in the mood for his jokes, only gave a half smile and grunted.

Emil nodded toward the pastry in his hands. "Where'd you get those croissants?"

Raoul nodded to the doorway. "The dining room. Next door."

And, to Raoul's relief, Emil was soon out of his sight. He stuffed the last of the croissant into his mouth and sighed.

Meg was around here somewhere, as well, he knew. He'd spoken to her briefly, but she'd continuously flitted from person to person, group to group, like the hummingbird she was. He had no idea where she was now.

"Master Philippe."

Raoul looked up as he overheard one of the servants addressing his brother a few meters away.

"Yes, Pierre?"

"A Mademoiselle Christine Daaé and a Monsieur Erik Beauchene are here."

"Ah, yes," Philippe glanced to Raoul, who was standing up straight, staring with interest. "Please do let them in from the hall. Raoul invited them."

Raoul, without wasting a moment, practically flew through the ballroom, past the groups of gossiping women and laughing men, past the now-flustered Philippe and Pierre, and into the main hall. He screeched to a halt as he saw Erik and Christine. They were both holding a gift, Christine in an elegant green dress and Erik in a black suit. They could easily have been part of the aristocracy.

Christine grinned at him. "Happy birthday, Raoul!"

He grinned back, his mood lifting immediately. Erik gave a small smile as well and nodded. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you, both of you!"

Raoul started moving forward, just as Pierre walked briskly past him, giving him a small indignant nod, as if offended at his young master's lack of formality.

"Monsieur and Mademoiselle." Pierre nodded to each of them in turn. "Might I take your coats?" Both consented, handing over their outerwear. Erik did so a bit awkwardly, as if wary to give over any of his personal items to a complete stranger. Pierre took their coats and carried them away down the hall.

Raoul came to them. "You can hand over the gifts to me," he said with a smile. He took the boxes from them; Christine's was about the length and width of a forearm, and Erik's was long and thin.

"I, erm..." Erik began, shifting his position uncomfortably. "I truly was not sure what to get you for your birthday. If you end up hating your gift, I would not be offended if you returned it to me, so that I could buy you something you might actually enjoy..."

Raoul waved the thought away, holding the presents under his left arm. "No, no. I'm sure I'll like it. Honestly, you two coming was a present enough."

Christine and Erik both smiled at that.

"Besides, if I do end up hating a gift you put time, effort, and money into getting, I'm not sure I deserve a gift at all."

"I like your philosophy," Christine said, nodding.

"Well, I may not be an expert on the violin," he said, his eyes on Erik, whose lip corners twitched, "and I may have not been the brightest in school, but I am a fantastic philosophizinger."

"Philosopher," Erik corrected.

Raoul blinked. "What did I say?"

"Philosophizinger, I believe."

He grinned. "As I said. Not the brightest in school."

He started leading them through the hall and into the ballroom, not before detouring for a moment to put the gifts in a separate room. No one was dancing; not yet, at least. Dinner was at eight o'clock and dancing wasn't meant to start until nine. People were still standing around, casually nibbling on pastries and drinking wine.

"So I take it Gustave Daaé didn't want to come?" he said.

"I told him you were open to him joining us," Erik explained behind him, "but he's at a performance."

"I heard he performed last night." Raoul glanced behind himself to look at him. Erik shrugged.

"He's a busy man."

Raoul stepped aside to let them into the ballroom, and noticed that while Christine stepped gracefully in with the comfort level of someone used to social settings, Erik made himself a very tall, dark, and thin wallflower, slinking to the side of the room with a look of trepidation clear in his eyes.

"So," Raoul said. Christine and Erik both looked at him, Christine smiling and Erik stiff. "You obviously know my birthday: November 15th. What are your birthdays?"

"March 30th," Christine said. "I'm turning eighteen."

"On July 11th I'll be twenty-two," murmured Erik, his eyes now darting from guest to guest.

"Twenty-two?" Raoul asked incredulously, completely taken aback.

Erik once again stared at him. "Yes. Why?"

"I don't know. It's just...you seem so much older than that."

Erik nodded and looked away. "I feel older than that as well. Certain experiences tend to age your mind faster than your body."

Raoul glanced at Christine, who looked momentarily sad at his words, and felt as if he were missing part of some bigger picture. Like there was something Erik and Christine both knew and he was being kept from the secret.

He turned away to look at the other guests, just for a few seconds, and his eyes landed on his older brother staring at them; rather, the longer he watched Philippe watch them, the more he realized that it wasn't all of them he was looking at. Just Christine.

Philippe moved his gaze from Christine to Raoul, and, as he held his wine in his right hand, he tapped his forefinger against the glass as a beckoning for Raoul to come to him.

"Excuse me for a few moments," he said to his friends. They nodded.

He walked over to his brother, who was now staring intently at Christine.

"Is that..." he began.

"Christine Daaé. Yes. And next to her is Erik Beauchene."

As Raoul studied his brother, he realized he was looking at Christine with a sort of hunger. But not a fierce hunger, more like a soft admiration. Like looking at her was enough to satisfy him.

Raoul crinkled the skin above his nose. "What is it?"

"She reminds me of Céline."

Raoul stared at him. "You're fiancée Céline?"

Philippe nodded, never moving his eyes from Christine.

Ten years ago, Philippe had fallen in love, for the first time in his life, with a young woman named Céline Benoit. She'd been aristocracy, just like Philippe. And she was everything that Philippe could want in a significant other: intelligent, worldly, and sophisticated. Not to mention absolutely beautiful. But she had also been hiding an illness, and her family had refused any guests to visit beginning months before she died.

Not even the man who had asked her to marry him just two weeks prior.

Cancer, the doctors revealed after her death. It had been eating away at her from the inside out.

Philippe hadn't been able to cope for several years. She was the only one he'd ever even looked at.

And, as far as Raoul knew, there hadn't been any women since.

"Why do you say she reminds you of Céline?"

"The way she stands," he explained softly, his eyes studying her. "Her facial expressions. She looks nothing like her, but I can just tell. She...she has her spirit."

Raoul looked at Christine. She was leaning against the wall, next to Erik. Not slouching, but not rigid. Even as she leaned, she was poised and graceful. He saw Erik say something to her, and she let out a tinkling laugh. Erik smiled softly in return. Her features were expressive and warm, he realized. And, Raoul had to admit, she was extremely pretty.

Still... The idea of Philippe and Christine together was so odd, that Raoul couldn't help but frown.

Philippe let out a sigh. "I didn't mean to trouble you with this. It's nothing. Just a...a passing thought. She's a bit too young for me, anyway, isn't she?" He chuckled. "People marry at starkly different ages all the time, but I doubt she would have to even consider marrying even ten years above her age."

Raoul stared at him. "Don't you have a 'must-be-aristocracy' rule, anyway?"

Philippe nodded absently, still watching Christine. Then, he looked away and gave another sigh. "I should see to the other guests." He smiled a bit sadly. "I do hope you're having a good birthday."

Raoul smiled slightly and nodded. He watched as his brother walked away into the throng of people.

"Who are they?"

Raoul whipped around to see Emil standing at his other side, watching Erik and Christine, who seemed to be wrapped up in an in-depth conversation. While he talked to her, Raoul realized, he didn't seem as nervous as before. He seemed looser.

Raoul's stomach sank as he looked Emil in the eye and saw the fierce hunger that Philippe had been lacking. That hunger, though, seemed to be shrouded in a mist that Raoul could only guess was the wine that had finally pushed him into the territory of drunkenness.

"Two of my other friends," Raoul explained warily. "Erik and Christine. Erik is my violin teacher and Christine is Gustave Daaé's daughter."

Emil raised an eyebrow. "Erik is a bit...odd-looking, isn't he?" Emil murmured, his voice a bit slurred; if Raoul was not mistaken, he could have sworn he saw Erik rip his gaze from Christine to Emil and Raoul, as if he could hear Emil's words. "Far too thin...and why the mask?"

Raoul watched as Erik moved his eyes from Emil to Raoul, as if daring him to say anything less than kind. Could Erik really hear Emil talking? He could barely hear the conversation happening right next to him.

"To be quite honest," Raoul whispered, "I don't really know what the mask is for, but...that's just how he looks, I suppose."

Erik only continued to stare, making Raoul look away and back at Emil, who gave a half-smile, his eyes on Christine.

"But on the other hand...that Daaé girl. I wouldn't mind showing her my bedroom, if you understand what I'm saying."

Raoul gave a heavy sigh as Emil laughed drunkenly. When he looked toward Erik, his heart dropped to find him stalking his way toward them, a look of fire in his eyes. Christine was behind him, looking confused and concerned.

"Erik?" she said. "What's going on?"

Erik, however, only stared at Emil with malice.

"Would you care to repeat that?" he hissed lowly.

Emil looked at him in shock. "You could hear me?"'

"Every word."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then you know what I said."

Raoul and Christine exchanged worried glances. She was looking at him with an expression that said " _what is happening?_ ", but he only bit his lip, rolled his eyes, and shook his head in response.

If he could have seen Erik's nostrils, he bet they would have flared. His bottom lip became a thin line on his masked face, and his pupils contracted.

"Don't you _dare_ disrespect her like that again." His voice was like an icy stream, cold and smooth at once.

At his words, Emil seemed mildly uneasy, an expression that was quickly replaced by a stupid cockiness. He laughed. "You think you're intimidating, don't you, _Erik_?"

Raoul looked around. He was glad to see that none of the other guests were taking any notice. Erik and Emil weren't talking loudly enough, and they all seemed to be too engaged in their own conversations.

"Am I not?" Erik growled.

"No. I'm not scared of you. Or your...companion." He looked at the perplexed Christine with lust and grinned. His intoxicated stare landed back on Erik. "Tell me, my masked friend. Did you pay for her to come here with you?" He leaned in, looking to be on the verge of a fit of giggles. "Did you pay her to do... _anything else_?"

Christine's mouth fell open and she went white as a sheet.

"Emil!" Raoul choked. "Oh. My. God! I told you, she's Gustave Daaé's daughter. She's a lady, for God's sake!"

Erik's bottom lip lowered as he bared his teeth in a snarl. His mismatched eyes seemed to go red with rage, and Raoul could practically hear the tempo of his heart increase. His fingers curled into claws at his side; his long digits making his hands look like a pair of spiders as they twisted every which way and went taut, as if he were trying his absolute hardest not to reach out and strangle the very life from Emil.

And Emil, stupid Emil, only continued to grin like a half-witted ape.

When Erik spoke, it was in a whisper, but Raoul was shocked that the entirety of Paris couldn't hear him.

"Say one more word about her, _one single word_ , you drunken bastard, and I swear you will never speak again." He turned suddenly to look at Raoul, who instinctively shrunk into himself.

He knew Erik had a temper; he'd seen it on that first day of lessons. But he had no idea it had been this intense.

"I must admonish against your choice in friendships, Raoul," he said, and Raoul bit his lip. "Is there, perhaps, somewhere that I could go to be in peace and quiet for a few minutes?"

He nodded lightly. "Through the dining room, and then take a left. Down the hall, you should see a room on your right. It's the sitting room. No one should be in there right now."

"Thank you," he murmured. Then, giving Emil one last icy glare, he turned to Christine and said something under his breath, so quietly that only she could hear it. She nodded, looking at Emil with disgust. The two of them walked briskly out of the ballroom.

Raoul turned on Emil with anger.

"What the _damned Hell_ is the matter with you? Jesus Christ, have you completely lost your mind?"

Emil only grinned at him, his face flushed and his eyelids heavy. "Oh, Raoul. My sweet, pansy friend. Don't be too upset. I'm a tad inebriated; not thinking clearly, you know."'

Raoul crossed his arms, shaking his head. "You need to apologize right away."

Emil only waved away the suggestion with his hand. "I will, I will, but let me sober a bit, will you?"

He took another drink of his wine and giggled.

Raoul sighed disgustedly and turned away, leaving his friend standing with his drink in his hands.

He started through the ballroom, about to go after Erik and Christine to apologize _for_ him, when a short blond-haired girl stepped in front of him.

Meg.

His insides always seemed to flutter at the sight of her. It took a moment for his mind to adjust and for him to remember what he was setting out to do.

She was grinning up at him. "I just made a Spanish aristocrat believe I'm the _Princess_ of _France_! Me!" She laughed heartily.

He smiled at her, but then bit his lip. "Meg, I want to talk to you, but I need to go to the sitting room for something important."

"All right!" she exclaimed. "I'll come with you. What is this important thing you need to do, and how can I help."

She started walking ahead of him to exit the ballroom, and Raoul grinned at her eagerness. He quickened his pace to catch up.

"Your brother just insulted the living Hell out of one of my other guests," he explained. He looked down at her and saw her deep-set frown. "And yesterday, he actually made fun of an old man, and proceeded to call me a 'little girl' when I stepped in. Has he always been this way?"

"In a way. I mean, he's always been a spitfire, but he was never cruel like he's starting to be."

They were walking through the long dining room.

"So you notice it, too!" Raoul exclaimed.

"Yes," she said. "I think it's the friends he's making at school. They're...I don't know...changing him." They started down the hall. "And the prospect of owning those factories, taking over my father's position...I think it's all going to his head. He's starting to be so full of himself. Thinking other people's feelings don't really matter. Like he's king of everything."

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I."

At last, they reached the sitting room, to find Erik sitting on the couch with his head in his hands and Christine sitting next to him, talking to him in a low voice. In the dim light of the few candles that were lit, he could see Erik's knee bouncing up and down in agitation.

"We shouldn't have come," he said. "I knew this was a terrible, terrible idea."

"It wasn't a bad idea," she responded. "It was fine up until _he_ showed up."

Christine looked up to find Raoul and Meg standing there, and she stood, looking a little guarded. Erik sensed her movement and looked up as well, and then followed her example and went on his feet.

"I am so sorry about Emil," Raoul said earnestly. "He's just...extremely drunk. He was being stupid. Really, I don't think he knew what he was saying. I'm very, very sorry."

"Yes," Meg said. "I can attest to all of that. I have no idea what he said or did, but I'm sorry as well." Then, as if in an afterthought, "I'm Meg, by the way. Emil's twin sister."

"Can I...apologize, too?"

All four of them turned to look at the doorway. Emil was standing there. Wine was no longer in his hands; Raoul guessed he must have drank the rest of it.

He gave a dopey smile. "Sorry. I followed Raoul and my sister in here. You could have waited for me, Raoul! I just had to finish my drink."

"Emil," Meg said, "exactly how many have you had?"

"Maybe three. Maybe fifteen. Does it _matter_ , really?" His speech was incredibly slurred. Raoul grimaced.

This was _not_ the boy Raoul had initially made friends with.

Emil turned to Christine. He gave a low, mocking bow. "My _lady_. I am very, very sorry for implying you are a cheap woman. I'm _sure_ you're extremely expensive."

He guffawed.

Raoul and Meg blanched. Christine made a gagging noise, and Erik simply seethed dangerously, "Get the hell out of here, for the love of Christ."

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" he blathered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It was a ja- a joke. Not a good one, I will admit. Now, you -" He pointed to Erik directly, who hissed through his teeth at the rude gesture. "I wanted to apologize to you."

He began walking toward him, his hand outstretched. Erik took a step backwards.

"Get out of my sight, you blabbering fool."

"No, come now! Take my hand."

He was standing right in front of him, his hand still offered. Erik only looked down at it in disgust.

"Please. I really do want to say I'm sorry. I was being rude and mean. Just shake my hand."

"I wouldn't touch you with a mud-stained handkerchief if my life depended on it."

Emil stared at him for a few moments, and then let out a wheezing, breathy laugh. He let his hand fall to his side. "All right. I see how it is."

He continued to smile, and then slowly turned his head to look at Christine. When he did so, his face changed into one of acute horror.

"Oh, my God! Christine's bleeding!"

Everyone looked at Christine, shocked and suddenly concerned, not wasting time to question the drunk boy who'd cried wolf. Especially Erik. He turned to his friend and looked for the source of the so-called blood.

As Erik quickly examined Christine, Raoul looked up just in time to watch in horror, as Emil took the opportunity to reach up and pull the mask from Erik's face.

And Erik, suddenly exposed, froze in place for a moment. Only long enough for every other person in the room - Christine, Raoul, Meg, and Emil - to get a good look at his disfigurement.

Christine went white. Meg covered her silent scream with her hands. Raoul stiffened and grimaced. Emil twisted his face into a look of sheer revulsion.

Then, after what seemed like the longest blink of an eye ever, Erik realized what had happened. He put his hands up to his twisted face and screamed in the most anguished voice Raoul had ever heard.

" _NO! God, NO! Please, please please! No! NO!"_

* * *

 **Yeah, no. I'm not Emil's number one fan.**


	16. Violinist's Student

**Chapter 16**

 **Violinist's Student**

"He's a monster," Emil whispered. "Holy God...he's a _monster_."

Erik continued to wail with his hands over his face, his words growing incoherent. He was shaking violently, his entire body seeming to retreat into itself, as if he wanted to hide but couldn't find the courage to move.

Raoul stared at him, frozen in place. This wasn't the reaction of someone embarrassed or surprised or even angry at having his privacy invaded. This was the reaction of someone whose very mind had snapped.

And his face...oh _God_. He looked like he had been dead for months. The skin on his forehead and cheeks looked rotten, his entire face completely sallow and sunken. His upper lip was swollen and discolored as if injected with venom.

And he had no nose. _No nose_. Just two gaping holes in the center of his face.

" _No..._ " Erik sobbed. He sounded no more than five years old. " _No. No..._ "

Raoul watched as Christine pulled herself out of her shock and turned on Emil with a savage intensity. She snatched the mask from him, spat directly into his face, and reached her free hand for Erik's elbow.

Emil wiped the spit from his face, seemingly unfazed by her gesture. He stared with utter disgust at the crying Erik.

"A monster..." he continued whispering, shaking his head. The thought of it seemed to sober him slightly. "A living corpse. He's an _actual monster_."

Meg gave a small cry, her hands over her mouth and her eyes wide, as she stumbled onto a chair nearby.

"Raoul," Christine said shakily. She looked terrified and livid at once, her face and eyes like white and blue sheet lightning. Her hand was still in the elbow of Erik, who seemed no closer to coming out of his madness. "We need to go. Is there a back exit? Please. How do we get out?"

Raoul heard his own voice tell her how to get to the door towards the backyard gardens, so that no one would see them exit. She nodded and pulled Erik away, looking at him with concern and fear, mask still in her hand.

When Christine and Erik were gone, the cries of his voice fading away as they went through the empty halls of the house, Raoul turned to Emil with wide eyes.

He didn't know him. He didn't know this person. He wasn't sure he ever really had.

"Get out of my house," he said softly, his lips barely moving.

Emil's eyes were just as wide. Meg continued holding her hands over her mouth.

"Did you see his face, Raoul?" Emil breathed.

"Yes." The arteries in Raoul's neck were starting to pound. "Get out of my house."

Emil stared at him for a few seconds, and then turned to his sister. "Let's go, Meg."

She shook her head vigorously. "No. No, I don't want to look at you right now."

"I'll escort her home," Raoul said. "But get out of my house."

Emil, still clearly under the influence, looked lazily from his sister to his friend. "You are upset with me for revealing that one of your guests was a monster in disguise?"

" _You're_ a monster in disguise." Emil went red at Raoul's words. "Now. Get. Out. Of. My. House."

He didn't move.

Raoul let out a yell and moved toward Emil. He grabbed him by the arm and began tugging him forcefully toward the ballroom.

" _Out_!"

He managed to drag him to the entranceway of the ballroom. All around, people were whispering and staring as Raoul and Emil emerged.

"Master Raoul." Pierre walked toward him, leaning in to speak softly to him. Philippe stood a bit away, near the front of the crowd, looking deeply concerned. "What is going on? The guests all heard someone screaming. Is everything all right?"

"The scream was Emil's." Raoul continued holding on to his former friend, his voice emotionless. "He's a madman."

Emil gaped, going completely red. He looked out at the crowd. "I'm not a madman!"

He pulled free of Raoul's grip, pushing him away forcefully with a loud grunt. Raoul stumbled backwards, and had Pierre not been there as a buffer, he would have fallen. A few women gasped.

"Pierre," Raoul said, looking at his servant. He felt his hands physically shaking. "Please help me escort my _guest_ out."

Pierre nodded, his brow creased deeply. He put his hands out to take Emil by the shoulder, but the boy took a few steps backward, swinging his arm.

"Don't touch me! I'm not a madman!" He looked at the crowd. "It's that Erik that screamed!" Everyone stared silently as he spoke. "That violin teacher Erik! He has the face of the Devil! He's...he's a corpse! A walking, talking, breathing corpse!"

A few of the guests were looking at each other wide rounded eyes, a low buzz of whispered murmurs rippling through the crowd. Philippe's lips were set in a hard line. He was looking at Raoul with a look that said _"I told you so"_.

"Get him out, Pierre," Philippe said. "The boy is clearly disturbed."

"I'm not disturbed!" Pierre took him by the arm, and Emil began to struggle, his voice reverberating as he was pulled out of the ballroom and into the front hall. "He's a corpse! No nose! Rotting flesh! He traipses around, pretending to be human, but he is a _monster_! Underneath that mask is the face of _death_! He's a monster! _He's a monster_!"

Everyone stared at Raoul as the sound of the front door was heard opening and closing, Emil's voice being cut off as he was thrown out into the cold night air.

"As I said," Raoul said softly, "a madman."

* * *

Erik's world was spinning. Spinning, spinning, spinning out of control.

 _Out of control! Everything was out of control!_

They'd seen him. They'd seen his face.

Christine had seen his face.

And her expression had looked so shocked. So, incredibly _terrified_.

He covered his his face with his hands and screamed. That expression on her face, the expression on all of their faces...he hadn't seen those looks since he was an adolescent, trapped in a cage, treated as an object, dreading every morning that he woke up, friendless and alone.

 _He would be locked up again. His entire life would end. He would lose his dignity, his happiness, his family. All of it would be taken from him._

His world was about to crumble in mere seconds.

And there was nothing...nothing he could do about it!

Erik felt dizzy as he continued yelling and shaking, unable to see through his fingers. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to run, far, far away. But he couldn't move. He was terrified to move.

He heard words, but couldn't understand them. Everything seemed to be a massive jumble of sounds. The only words he seemed to make out were "monster" and "corpse", and he knew they were coming from the mouth of Emil. He could feel Christine's hand in his elbow as she pulled him through the house. He felt like a malfunctioning automaton as he was led unprotesting by her. He had no idea where she was taking him; it could have been to the pits of Hell, and it wouldn't have mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. She was saying something in a soft voice, but he wasn't processing any of her speech. She could have been speaking kindly, could have been speaking hatefully. He had no idea.

He heard a door open and felt himself step out into frigid air. He stepped forward, heard Christine give a shout, and then felt himself tumble down three or four steps onto a stone path. His hands came involuntarily away from his face as he landed on his side, and when he looked, he saw a row of flowers, with trees a few meters away, all holding a faint blue hue in the cold November night atmosphere.

Christine was at his side in an instant, panic in her voice.

"Are you hurt?"

He didn't look at her. He felt too mentally weak; he didn't even move his hands to cover his face.

 _Just let me die here_ , he thought. He closed his eyes. _Let me stay here for days, weeks, months, years until death takes me and I am buried beneath these flowers. I'll have to be alone, now that you know what I look like; and if I have to be alone, friendless forever, I would rather die_.

After a few moments of silence, as he felt her presence hovering above him, he heard the sound of something like glass touch the stone path he lay on right in front of his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw his mask sitting there.

As if his limb were acting of its own accord, he saw rather that moved his own arm and picked up the mask. He pushed himself up with his free hand and stood, swaying slightly as he did. His entire side where he fell was sharp with pain, but he barely felt it.

All he could do was stare at the white porcelain in his hands.

"I snatched it from Emil," he heard Christine whisper shakily behind him.

Erik froze.

 _Emil_.

He wanted to kill him. He wanted to end him so badly. The amount of hatred he felt for him...it was comparable to his hatred for his captor in the fair. He wanted more than anything to cause him harm, to wring his neck until he went blue in the face and his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

He gripped the mask tightly, watching his knuckles turn white at the pressure.

But no. There would always be Emils. There would always be people who would rip his happiness away and invade his privacy.

And he could never, ever face Christine again if he acted on his desire to kill. Even if she still held even an inkling of affection for him now, she would hate him if he let himself be a killer.

Gustave would hate him.

And if Gustave hated him, Erik would surely kill his own self.

 _He was helpless. He couldn't be happy. As long as he needed the mask, he would never be happy._

The mask was supposed to save him.

But it had failed.

He let out another yell and flung the porcelain to the ground, and it shattered into a dozen pieces. He heard Christine gasp audibly behind him.

He needed to run. To get out. He couldn't be here, just inches of the house where he knew his entire world had just been torn to shreds.

Without a word to Christine, he sprinted through the garden and found his way into the street. Christine shouted something behind him, but he didn't hear her. He just ran, his arm over his gaping nostrils in case someone should see him. He kept running, for what seemed like ten minutes, until he found himself at his home. He had forgotten how very close Gustave's apartment was to Raoul's house; he was fairly wealthy and lived at the perimeter of the rich section of Paris, on the border between the upper and middle classes.

He hadn't meant to come there. He hadn't meant to go anywhere, really. But he hadn't known where else to go.

Shaking, he walked into the apartment. And, as he looked around, he felt like an intruder.

He didn't belong there. He never had. He would never belong anywhere.

It had all been one enormous ruse. He'd _actually_ tricked himself into thinking he could live an ordinary life, with a father, and a home, and a career, and a friend. He'd even gone as far as to be _attracted_ to his friend, as if that weren't disgusting enough; if she knew she had attracted a _corpse_ to her, she would have vomited.

He crumpled to the ground in a heap of tears, feeling his whole body shake. He didn't know what to do. He needed someone to tell him what to do. He needed someone to tell him everything would be all right.

Because he felt everything would never be all right again.

As he kelt on the floor, the sobs ripping through him growing harder as the minutes went by, he heard the front door open, and the sound of someone breathing hard, as if having run a long distance.

Christine.

She had been at the party. Why hadn't she stayed? Raoul was there. People were there. She deserved to be around people. She deserved to be happy.

 _Why hadn't she stayed_?

She must have heard him weeping in the dark, because she flew to him and bent down, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Erik," she whispered softly. Her breathing was still ragged from exhaustion. "Oh, Erik, it's all right. It will be all right."

Even through his clothes, he could feel the warmth of her hand. But it was the warmth in her tone that made him grip the hem of her skirt and bring it to his face.

"Please don't hate me," he sobbed. His body was rocking back and forth. "Please. Christine. If you hated me, I don't know what I would do. I couldn't bear it. Please, please don't hate me."

"Oh, Erik, no..." she knelt down to his level, taking the hem of the skirt out of his hands. She gripped his arms and stared through the dark into his face. "Erik, why would I _hate_ you?"

"I'm a corpse."

His eyes were adjusted enough to tell that she was looking at him sadly. "You look very alive to me."

He sobbed again. "You don't understand. I'm a monster, Christine. My face makes me a monster."

"No," she said sternly, shaking her head. "No, no, no."

"Yes. I tried telling your father the same thing. But he didn't believe me."

"Because it's not true."

"It is." His voice was shaking. Tears were running down his sunken, twisted cheek and into the corner of his mouth. "It is."

For a few seconds, she stared at him. He was growing uncomfortable, not wanting her to look so long at his disgusting visage, before she whispered, "You do not have the soul of a monster."

His hands were fists in front of him. More tears rolled from his eyes. "I have the body of one. And in the end, that's all that really matters to people, isn't it? You and your father, you see my soul...but you and your father are s _aints_. You both are from _Heaven_ , sent to Earth by God directly." He felt her hands tighten slightly on his shoulders and heard her give a sigh. "But the others? You...you _heard_ Emil. You _heard_ him call me a monster."

"Oh, Erik, I don't think Emil's opinion matters very much."

"He's not the first. And he will not be the last." He paused for a long time, and when he took a deep breath, thinking it would calm him, his body only released it as a deep sob. Emotions overcame him again. "I don't want to be ugly anymore, Christine," he whispered tremulously. "I want to be handsome. Just...for one day, I'd like to know what it's like to be handsome." His voice broke in half. "I'd like to know what it's like to not hate myself."

Erik heard Christine's breath hitch. She didn't move for several seconds while he continued to cry. Then, she got up very slowly and walked around him, her footsteps fading as she moved through the main hall and up the stairs.

He sobbed again. She must have finally felt disgusted by him; he didn't blame her. He would be revolted, too.

After a couple of minutes, he heard with surprise her footsteps start down the stairs. He saw his shadow in front of him cast by a dim yellow light from behind; she must have been carrying a candle. He watched her come back around to face him, the light in one hand and a bottle of ink in another. Under her arm was a book.

Slowly, she lowered herself into a two-legged kneel again. She put the candle on the ground and looked into his face. Her expression read no emotion as she studied him, as if she were contemplating a piece of art on a wall. Then, she placed the bottle of ink and the book next to the candle, as if she were getting ready to conduct a ritual of some kind.

Erik watched through his tears as she pointed to each item individually and spoke.

"This is a candle from my room, and this is a bottle of ink I took from the study about a week ago to write in my journal." She pointed to the book, which was covered with a rich red leather and titled in a beautiful gold calligraphy. "And this? This is my absolute favorite book in the world, _The Plight of the Forest Village_. It's the only book I cared enough about to take from Sweden. I've loved it since I was twelve years old."

She looked at Erik again, bit her lip, and looked back down at the items. Then, giving a sigh, she picked up the bottle of ink and poured some of it onto the front cover of the book, giving it a hideous black blot. Erik stared down at it, his eyes gone completely wide, deeply confused, surprised, and horrified by her action.

"This," she said, pointing to the book and watching Erik steadily, "is now a terribly, terribly ugly book. But it's still my favorite book. Because I don't care about the cover. I look at the cover for about two seconds, and then I look inside the book. Because inside the book is art." She reached over and took his hands. "Inside _you_ is art. Maybe your face isn't beautiful. But you are. So don't you dare tell me you hate yourself."

As he looked at her in astonishment, he felt that overwhelming need to kiss her again. But it was more than that. It was a need to not only hold her, but to _be_ with her. Physically and emotionally.

He wasn't just attracted to her, he realized.

He loved her.

He'd loved her since she'd put the mask on in a show of compassion and acceptance. And his love had only grown until it was clear enough for Erik to see what it was.

Not knowing what he was doing, but feeling it was the only outlet for how he felt, he lifted her small, pretty hands to his grotesquely misshapen lips and tenderly kissed her fingers, one last tear falling onto her knuckles.

* * *

Christine watched, breathless, as Erik kissed her hands. His eyes closed at the contact, and she felt a droplet of water fall onto her skin. His lips lingered there for a moment, his disfigured face looking somewhere between serene and devastated, and when he was done, he stared down at her fingers with a look of adoration, running his thumbs lightly over them.

It was the gentlest thing she felt she'd ever experienced.

Oh, _how_ could he think he was a monster? How could he possibly think of himself that way when he'd just kissed her hands with so much softness?

She pulled her hands slowly from his, and before she could let him feel rejected by the action, she put them on the sides of his face, letting her palms embrace his sunken cheeks. He let out a contented, shaky sigh as he stared at her with a warm emotion she hadn't seen before, and therefore couldn't quite place. He moved a thin hand to tuck a strand of loose curls behind her ear.

"Christine," he whispered softly, and then, very slowly, he leaned down and put his lips against hers.

Surprised, she gasped and instinctively drew back.

But the moment she did, the reality of what had happened registered. And she regretted pulling away.

Not because he looked at her with horror - and he _did_ look horrified - but because she had liked it. It hadn't been offensive or violating, like a random kiss from anyone else might have been. It had been sweet and comforting. It had been...right.

"Oh, God," Erik said in a shakily. He looked mortified with himself. "Oh, God, Christine. I'm so sorry. Oh, my God. Christine...I...I don't..."

"No, I..." she whispered. She felt lightheaded for some reason. "Do that again."

He stared at her with incredulity for a moment, before nodding and leaning down once more. This time, she didn't pull away. Instead, she let her hands move to his chest and slide slowly up to his shoulders. She felt one of his hands at the base of her skull and the other on her back between her shoulder-blades. As the hand at her skull sunk its fingers into her hair, she instinctively moved her arms to wrap around his neck completely. He moaned lightly in response and pulled away a few centimeters, only enough to whisper:

"I love you."

"I..." she said, feeling completely disoriented by the experience. "I think I...I think I might love you, too."

He pulled back and stared at her, mouth and eyes wide, utter disbelief and guarded hope clear on his face. "You do?"

She bit her lip. Did she? She certainly hadn't given it any thought. But the way that kiss made her feel, the way she was still feeling...

"I don't know," she said. "I've never been in love before. I mean, I care about you. Deeply. As if you're...and you _are_...my best friend. But I also want you to...to kiss me again." She looked him in the eyes. "Is that love?"

She saw the corners of his lips tug upwards, and his eyes began to wet again. "That's the experience I'm having."

"Then..." she said, and smiled, "I love you, too."

And, just like the kiss, the words felt simply correct. Like fitting a piece into a puzzle.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and water streamed down his face. She lifted a hand to wipe it away, and he looked at her affectionately. "I don't deserve your love," he said. "There is no way, no possible way, that I do. But I want to. I want to so very much. I will do anything, whatever it might require, to deserve you." He put his hand over hers. "You're an angel." His gaze grew intense. "You're my angel."

"You're the one with an angel's voice," she whispered, remembering the day they became friends. "I could only dream of singing like that."

He studied her face for a moment, before saying, "I could teach you. You could not only look like an angel, but sound like one as well."

She blushed, but raised her eyebrows. "Will you have time? What with teaching violin?"

A dark emotion passed over his face. "I don't think I want to teach strangers anymore, Christine. I don't think I can. Not after today."

She watched as that darkness seemed to shroud over him, clouding into his thoughts. Quickly, she moved forward and embraced him tightly.

He relaxed at once and sighed.

"I'd be honored to be your student."

At that, Erik turned his head and placed a ginger kiss on her cheek, and her heart fluttered.

"The honor would be mine."


	17. Dark Turn

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

 **Dark Turn**

Emil struggled to pull free of Pierre's grip, but the servant had the strength of an ape - an extremely stupid, ugly, classless ape. The ape opened the front door and thrust Emil out into the frigid Paris streets.

As he stumbled onto the front steps, he turned on him fiercely, his harsh breathing making white clouds billow from his nostrils in the cold air.

"What about my coat?" he demanded.

"Of course, Monsieur," Pierre said icily. "Stay here and I will fetch it for you."

He shut the door, and Emil stood seething and shivering, goosebumps rising on the skin of his arms and his whole body quaking uncontrollably. Within half a minute, the ape returned and handed the coat to Emil, who grabbed it thanklessly.

"Please enjoy the rest of your evening, Monsieur," Pierre said. "And _please_ , do not return without an invitation."

With that, he shut the door with a bang.

Emil threw on his coat unceremoniously and trotted down the steps, immediately kicking up a flower from a nearby flowerbed. How _dare_ Raoul humiliate him like that in front of everyone? Emil was surely now considered a complete lunatic, while that hideous _thing_ slipped away. Erik should have been the one to be called a madman, what with his screaming and crying. And his _face_. Jesus! They should have stuck him in the deepest levels of an asylum, or maybe strapped him to the bars of a circus animal cage, the moment he was hatched.

Meanwhile his reputation was intact, while Emil's had just plummeted straight into the looney bin.

He kicked up another flower with a grunt.

The playing field had to be evened.

He had to put Erik in his rightful place.


	18. Rumor Hatchling

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

 **Rumor Hatchling**

Gustave had initially declined the invitation to come to the Vicomte's birthday party. He always felt far too exhausted after performances, so he had simply assumed he wouldn't have the energy to go. But, as ten o'clock rolled around and he stepped out of the Parisian theatre, he felt vigorous.

His happiness at finally having his two children in his life - and getting along with both of them - kept him from feeling tired at all. At this time of night, he usually went straight home and into bed, but now he actually felt excited to go mingle, eat, and maybe even dance a little.

He told the coachman to continue straight past his apartment and into the very wealthy part of Paris. He paid the driver and hummed happily as he walked, hands in his coat pocket, up to the front door of the Comte de Chagny. He knocked a couple of times on the floor, a smile on his face and his violin case still in his hand. He wondered how Christine and Erik would react to seeing him there by surprise.

A thin little man answered the door, both of his eyebrows raised.

"Good evening, Monsieur," the man said. "How might I help you?"

"Yes, hello," Gustave said, "I am here to attend Raoul de Chagny's party."

"Name, Monsieur?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Gustave chuckled. "How rude of me. My name is Gustave Daaé. I was supposed to arrive with a Christine and Erik; I assume they are inside."

Something dark passed over the man's face for a second. "You said 'Erik', Monsieur? Does he wear a mask?"

Gustave nodded. "Yes, indeed he does."

He stared at him for a couple of moments. "Unfortunately," he said, "I am not completely certain where Mademoiselle Christine and Monsieur Erik are at the moment, but you are welcome inside. I will take your coat and inform the host you've arrived."

Gustave, his brow furrowing, nodded. He stepped in and handed the man his coat, who told him to wait, and left the entrance hall. Within minutes, Philippe de Chagny - he was recognizable to almost anyone in Paris - walked in to greet him. He smiled and extended his hand in greeting.

"Monsieur Daaé," he said, and Gustave shook his hand. "I had no idea you were coming." He eyed the case. "Will you be playing something for us tonight, then? That is always a treat."

"I can, of course, if you and young Raoul would like." He let go and readjusted the case in his hand. "Are Erik and Christine here? Your manservant seemed a bit odd when I asked him."

"Ah..." Philippe said, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "Yes. There was an...incident."

Gustave stared, concerned. "An incident? What kind of incident?"

"Well, I..." He half smiled, half grimaced. "Unfortunately, my friend, I do not know the details. But, you see, Raoul has...or, I suppose, I should now say _had..._ a friend by the name of Emil Giry. Do you know the Giry family?"

"I can't say that I do."

"All the better for you, then. You see, Emil and Meg Giry, my brother, and Erik and Christine were chatting in a separate room, and all of us in the ballroom heard screaming. Raoul pulled Emil out and proclaimed the screaming was his, that he was a madman, and Emil proceeded to tell the ballroom about his...delusions."

"Delusions, Monsieur?"

"Yes. Some kind of horror regarding Erik's face."

Gustave felt his hands go numb and his face go white, all of the blood receding to his belly. _Oh no_.

"'The face of the Devil!' he kept yelling. 'Monster! Corpse!' Well..." Philippe chuckled, "of course, it's utter nonsense. We both know that. Raoul and I had the Giry boy thrown out straight away. 'Demon' he said. Pah! Erik is a fine young man taught by a respectable musician." He nodded to Gustave. "The only "demon" that exists is the one inside Emil's brain. The boy should see a doctor...or a priest. Both, actually."

"Where is Erik now?" Gustave asked, unable to stop the sudden shakiness of his voice.

Philippe's small smile went away. "I believe he and your daughter left. I am not certain where, unfortunately. I would speak to my brother, if I were you. He seems to know more than I do. But not to worry, Monsieur. I understand if Erik is offended, but he need not be. I knew from the start that Emil was trouble."

Gustave nodded and Philippe led him into the ballroom. The room was filled with dancers, the older men and women and shyer young people chatting or fidgeting uncomfortably at the walls. Philippe pointed Raoul out amongst the dancers, muttered something darkly about "that Meg girl", shook his hand again, and then was lost in the sea of moving people.

As the song came to an end, and people clapped for the cellist and pianist, who both bowed and smiled, Gustave sped through the crowd to reach Raoul, who had just been dancing with a petite blonde. Just as he was mere meters away, however, a young woman, most likely twenty-one or twenty-two with sleek black hair, stepped in his path and stared at him intently. Beside her was another woman, red-haired and perhaps a few years younger.

"Are you Gustave Daaé, Monsieur?" the black-haired woman asked.

"Yes," he said, startled by the curtness.

"I thought so," she said with a smile. "You must excuse my rudeness, but...is it...is it true?"

He blinked. "Is what true, Mademoiselle?"

"His face," the redhead whispered. "Erik. Is it true? That he is a living corpse?"

"No," he said sternly, agitation nipping his nerves. "It's not true. Whatever you heard was a lie."

"Then..." The black-haired woman cocked her head. "Why _does_ he wear the mask?"

And Gustave had no idea what to say.

* * *

"Raoul," whispered Meg, as they continued to clap for the musicians. "Raoul, I can't stop thinking about his features."

He looked at her. "You don't believe he's a monster, too, do you?"

She shook her head. "No! No, of course not. But how is it possible? How can someone actually look like that?"

"I don't know."

"Emil was so wrong to do what he did. I don't know how I can look at him the same way. I knew he was changing. I didn't want to believe it, but now I know for certain. He's a different person. Raoul." She turned to face him. "I just feel so...nervous right now."

He stared at her. Meg was nervous...Meg, who liked jumping from trees.

"It's all right." He said. "I'm here. I'm always here for you. Forever and always."

 _Oh, goodness._ He almost cringed at himself. _That was too much. Too romantic. Keep it casual and light. Pull back, pull back._

To his surprise, however, she smiled. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around his waist, her head resting on his chest. He was sure she could hear and feel his heart pounding through his breastbone. If she did, she didn't seem to mind.

"Maybe I'm just feeling unnerved," she said softly, "but I feel so comforted by you. You always know exactly what to say."

Raoul looked down at her blonde hair and smiled, feeling suddenly giddy. It was no declaration of undying love, but it was definitely a start. He looked up, and jumped.

"What?" Meg said, pulling away. She looked around. "What is it."

"Gustave Daaé," he whispered, and Meg groaned.

Gustave was indeed walking toward them, his face looking pale. Without hesitation, Raoul beckoned him with his hand toward the dining room, and Gustave nodded. Raoul turned to Meg for a moment, just as the next song was about to start.

"I'm going to chat with Monsieur Daaé for a bit, Meg. Do you want to stay here and dance with other guests?"

"I don't really want to dance with anyone else," she said softly, and Raoul couldn't help but smile, "but I'm also just...exhausted by this whole thing. I'll sit and wait for you in here."

He nodded, and as she went to find a chair against the wall, Gustave walked behind Raoul through the throng of people, who were just now beginning to dance again, and into the dining room.

As he closed the door behind them, he turned and bit his lip as he saw Gustave's face - full of fear and concern.

"Monsieur Daaé," he started, "I am so, so, so sorry about what happened here tonight. Had I know that all of this would have happened, I would have never invited Emil. I..."

"Where are Erik and Christine?" Gustave asked.

"They left." He blinked. "I thought Christine took him home. Are they not there?"

"I don't know. I came here straight from a performance. I..." He leaned against the back of a chair, his hands gripping the polished wood. "I was hoping to surprise them here tonight. I didn't think I could come, but I made it here nonetheless." He looked at him with pain. "Emil saw his face?"

"Emil is...delusional, Monsieur."

Gustave stared at him intently for several seconds. Then, calmly, he asked, "Did you see it?"

Raoul bit his lip. For a few moments he stayed silent, not knowing the best way to respond. Finally, he said, "Yes."

Gustave sighed. "Then we both know Emil is not delusional."

He looked down. "Yes, I know."

His grip tightened on the chair as he continued looking at Raoul with severity. "He's not a monster."

"I know."

He closed his eyes. "People were asking me just now about his face. They are asking if he's actually a corpse."

"I told them that Emil was seeing things. That he's a madman."

Gustave opened his eyes again, his knuckles whitening. "Well, some of them didn't quite believe you. They wanted to hear it from me. And even then... Monsieur de Chagny, this cannot happen. People cannot be speculating..."

"I will stop it where I can, Monsieur," Raoul said. He was beginning to wish with anxiety that there was a way he could go back in time and re-do the entire night. It was the feeling you get when everything has gone wrong and you hope to God it's all a dream, meanwhile stones are forming in your stomach, making you feel nauseous and heavy. "I'll try my best to stop this rumor from growing."

Gustave nodded, but Raoul felt a chill pass through him at the unspoken fear shared between them.

* * *

Erik stood in the doorway, holding the now-disfigured book in his hands as Christine returned the ink to its spot on the study desk. She turned around to face him and smiled, holding out her hand. He went to her as if she had cast a spell on him. He would do anything she asked him to do.

Downstairs, Christine's knees had begun to ache, so they had moved to the couch, where they sat with each other close, running their fingers over each other's palms, watching the light eat up the candle's wax. After what seemed like a couple of hours, Christine declared that she should go to bed soon. Erik had been disappointed, but understood nonetheless. He was surprised it had taken that long for her to say it - she'd started yawning incessantly an hour before and hadn't been able to stop. He thought she had almost fallen asleep on his shoulder at one point, which had been the definition of bliss.

"Could I have a goodnight kiss before I go to bed?" she asked as his hand connected with hers.

His heart fluttered. "You can have a thousand if you'd like."

She smiled. "Just the one will do for now. But I will save the other nine hundred ninety-nine for the future.

Christine stepped in closer and leaned her head back. Erik put his hands at the base of her jaw and put his lips to hers. Calmness and affection washed over him at the touch.

He loved her so much.

She pulled away after what seemed to Erik to be too short a time. She grinned gently and ran her hand once through his hair, and his scalp tingled.

"Goodnight," she whispered. And she was gone.

Erik went to his own bedroom. When he got there, he realized he still had her book in his hand. He was about to go to her room to return it, but then decided on second thought to return it in the morning. If this was her favorite book, he wanted to see what had caught her love and attention.

As he opened the book, he thought about where this whole affair would lead. If she would continue to love him - he hoped she would, for he knew he would continue to love her. It seemed almost ridiculous, how much he loved her. It hadn't even been a whole month since he'd met her, and yet he knew he would never find anyone like her. That he would love her forever. That he would marry her in a heartbeat.

There wasn't any way he would ask for her hand immediately, though. After all, it _had_ been barely a month. And it _had_ only been a few hours since she even realized she loved him too. He doubted she was even close to accepting marriage from him at this point.

He would wait years for it if he had to. Truthfully, it would seem a miracle that someone like her loved him back, much less agree to spend the rest of her _life_ with him. He would be asking far too much to expect it right away.

He sat up in his bed reading for almost half an hour, blocking out all of his surroundings as his mind became enraptured in the novel. He almost jumped when he heard a faint knock on his door.

Christine.

He got up from his bed and drifted to the door, already smiling, when a soft voice spoke on the other side.

Definitely not a female voice.

"Erik? Are you awake?"

He froze.

Gustave.

And he wasn't wearing a mask!

"One moment," he said shakily, and went to his bottom drawer to find an assortment of masks. He picked up another porcelain one and put it on his face, before going to his bedroom door and opening it.

Gustave looked pale as a ghost, and just as haunting. Something was wrong.

"Is everything all right, sir?" Erik asked.

"I should ask the same of you," he answered, his voice low. He looked shortly toward Christine's bedroom, and both knew the girl was sleeping inside. "Can I come in?"

Erik nodded and allowed him entrance. Gustave crossed his arms as Erik closed the door again.

"I stopped by Raoul's party after the performance. I was told you weren't there. I was told you went home after...an incident took place."

Erik stared at him, feeling suddenly cold. "You know what happened?"

Gustave nodded slowly. Concern was pouring from his expression. "Are you all right, Erik?"

He shivered. He hated that Gustave knew about it, but he supposed it was better than him being there when it happened. "I wasn't," he answered truthfully. "But I am now."


	19. Rumor Fledgeling

**Read on!**

* * *

 **Chapter 19**

 **Rumor Fledgeling**

Emil was already sitting when James walked into the classroom Monday afternoon, holding his books at his side. He was never one to wear a satchel. In fact, neither was Emil. As James took his usual seat right beside Emil at the two-person desk, and began laying out his papers and notes in preparation for the lesson. As he lay his quill next to the inkwell that was stuck into the desk, Emil leaned in to whisper to him.

"I started a rumor this morning."

James smirked, not looking up. As he shuffled through his notes, he blew a stray strand of red hair that had wandered onto his forehead. "Another?" he asked, not surprised in the least.

"Yes," Emil said, "but this time, it's true."

This time, James did look at him, and gave him an intrigued look. "Do tell."

"Well, you know Raoul de Chagny..."

"That's that pansy boy you're always hanging around."

"Precisely. Well, he had a party this weekend, and..."

Just then, the professor, an aging man with a gray receding hairline and glasses far too large for his face, walked in. Just like every afternoon, he didn't bother to address the class before he began writing on the blackboard in the front of the room.

Emil put his voice down to a whisper and leaned in. Honestly, though, he could have spoken in his ordinary voice and the old loon most likely wouldn't hear him anyway. "Anyway," he continued, and James and himself put their heads closer together, "I went to his party, and guess who was there as well."

"Duke Snobbington."

"Yes, there were a lot of Snobbingtons," he said, "but not who I'm referring to."

"Who, then?"

"That violin teacher. Erik."

"I don't think I've heard of him."

"Now, class!" the professor said, his voice strained in his ancient body, "I trust that everyone did the reading last night, on the history of anatomical sciences..."

"No bother, I'll tell you who he is," Emil continued as the professor blathered on about the reading Emil had not bothered to do. "He's this masked musical teacher who tutors the richest people in Paris. Aristocracy and business-owners and the like. A few of the boys here have had him; none of them seem to favor him much...and, let me tell you, they have _very_ good reason."

James raised his eyebrows. "What's the reason?"

"Under the mask?"

"Yes?"

"He has the face of death."

James blinked. The professor shouted out a page number from the front of the class.

"The face of death, Emil? What does that even mean?"

"He looks like a corpse."

James was usually fairly gullible, but at this he gave him a look of complete doubt. He shook his head and opened his textbook to the page the professor had shouted. "I thought this was a _true_ story."

"It is." He leaned in closer. "Listen, don't believe me if you want, but I am telling the truth. I saw it with my own eyes."

James looked at him again, and must have seen sincerity in his eyes, because he cocked his head and asked, "You must have seen wrong, then."

"I didn't. I know what I saw."

"Well..." he said, "you don't _look_ mad. Are you _sure_?"

"Quite positive."

"Hm. How many people have you told thus far?"

"About twenty. And most of them, the ones who've had him teach them, had no doubt about it. They promised to spread the word so that others were aware."

"Most of your rumors are for fun and games," James said. "But you seem more serious than entertained by this."

"There is a demon walking among us. Of course I am serious about it."

"So, you're..." his eyes darted around the desk, as if deep in thought, "you're really telling the truth. I mean, this is real. There is someone with a corpse's face? What exactly does that mean? What are his exact features like?"

Emil told him.

"God..." James said, his eyes widening. "And that's really _true_?"

"I would tell you if it's a fake rumor, wouldn't I, James?"

"Yes. You would." His lips were set in a hard line. "All right. I will help spread the word."

Emil nodded. "Good. How fast and how far do you think you can get it to go?"

"My mother is the biggest gossip in Paris. I don't think it should take too long, and I doubt it will stay in one place."

Emil nodded with a smile. He turned away and opened his own textbook, not really looking at the page numbers, and then watched as the professor pointed to a diagram of a skeleton, his pointer circling the image of the skull.


	20. Musical Family

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 20**

 **Musical Family**

Erik could hardly keep his eyes open. And yet, even if he tried to go back to bed, he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep.

He sat at the piano in the parlor, staring absentmindedly at the musical notes on the page in front of him. Despite the loveliness that had taken place after the party, his mind had not been completely purged of what happened just before. The thoughts of it resurfaced in his sleep, and his dreams had been a stew of onlookers, both aristocrats and upperclassmen and guests to a traveling fair, as they looked at his face against his will.

He'd maybe gotten an hour of sleep before he woke up in a cold sweat, and wasn't able to rest his mind again.

As he continued watching the musical score, he heard the sound of footsteps walking down the staircase. He looked up to see Christine enter, and right behind her Gustave. They both beamed at him when they saw him, and he gave a weak smile as he stood.

"Father wanted to listen in on my first singing lesson," she said, crossing her hands in front of her. Gustave nodded to Erik in response, still smiling.

Erik gave a small nod back in consent. "Of course. As long as Christine is all right with it."

She confirmed that she was.

"All right, then," he said, and stared at her for a couple of seconds. She had an excited glint in her blue eyes that was setting Erik's heart fluttering. He wanted to walk over to her and kiss her. But Gustave had no idea about the relationship between them, so he knew it wouldn't be wise.

At least, not while he was present. When he was out of the room...

Erik blinked the thought away, and gestured for Christine to stand by the piano. Gustave took a seat on the couch.

"Now, Christine," Erik began, and Christine grinned and looked at him expectantly. Erik couldn't help but grin as well. "I would like you to sing scales. Like this."

He played a few notes on the piano, pulling the melody up and down.

"Can you show me in your own voice, Erik?" she asked.

He bit the inside of his cheek, and looked from her to Gustave. "I would rather not. Singing does not bring back...happy memories."

Gustave looked down; he must have understood. When he looked at Christine, he remembered the night he had attempted to sing and had failed, yelling and knocking the stool to the ground. He had the feeling she was remembering too. Then, the day after the night they'd kissed, she had confessed that she had heard him telling her father his past. Initially he'd been deeply embarrassed, but then decided that she might have found out in the future anyway.

He hadn't mentioned to either of them that singing had been part of the cage attraction, but in that moment, it probably wasn't hard for either of them to put two and two together and determine the lack of happy memories he was referring to.

He was therefore grateful when she nodded her head and said, "I understand. I can follow along to the piano notes just fine."

Erik started playing the notes again, and Christine opened her mouth to sing. As he played the scales, he was suddenly struck by how pretty the sound coming from her mouth was. It was shaky, yes, and a bit off-tune. But it was like listening to a bird learning to sing.

He took his hand away from the keys and looked at her with wide eyes. He moved his gaze toward Gustave, who was looking at his daughter in astonishment. Neither one of them had expected that.

"What?" Christine said, concerned. She looked from Erik to her father, back to Erik. "Was I so terribly bad?"

"No!" Erik said, almost breathless. Did this girl have _anything_ unpleasing about her? "No, not at all. Actually, Christine, there's a beautiful quality to your voice. With some fine tuning, you could...you could sing in operas."

She beamed. Gustave chuckled from his seat, and both Erik and Christine looked at him. He was staring at his daughter with pride.

"Imagine that," he said. "You, Erik, and me. A family of musicians."

Erik noted the way he had so nonchalantly included him in the term "family", and felt like that night at Raoul's party truly didn't matter so much.


	21. Sleepless Nights

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 21**

 **Sleepless Nights**

The lessons with Christine progressed nicely over the next couple of weeks. She was showing excellent promise as a student, and listening to her voice for an hour or two every day almost made up for the lack of sleep that was plaguing his nights.

When he did sleep, he had nightmares. As much as he thought the love of his family would push away the darkness of what had happened with Emil, it wasn't enough to put it out of his mind completely.

He couldn't tell if his lack of sleep was causing his paranoia, or if his paranoia was causing his lack of sleep. All he knew was that he was telling even Raoul to go away. All he had asked upon knocking on the door was, "Are you still giving me lessons?" to which Erik had promptly replied, "No. Please, please leave." Raoul had then asked if he could come in for even a couple of minutes to thank him for the gifts - a book from Christine and a new violin bow from Erik. Again, Erik told him no without further explanation.

His only salvation was when he got time with Gustave or Christine, or both. His conversations with his teacher and his embraces with his lover were all that could save him from the otherwise terrible and dark loneliness of his mind.

* * *

Gustave took a low bow onstage as the audience in front of him gave him a standing ovation. The cheers, however, usually full of life and excitement, seemed somehow muted tonight.

He weaved his way through the backstage and around to the ticket booth to collect the check that was waiting for him for his performance, as the audience began to clear. As he stuffed the check into his pocket and firmly gripped the violin case in his hand, he made his way into the Paris streets. He was fully prepared to be met with an onslaught of people, as usual after a performance. People wanting to obtain his signature, or shake his hand, or congratulate him, or simply say hello to the famed Gustave Daaé.

Outside of the theatre, there were people, yes, but not nearly as many as usual. He put this down to the fact that this was an unusually late performance - it had started at midnight and the time was nearing fifteen past one now. People were probably far too tired to wait around to shake his hand.

As he began to go down the line of smiling people, he noticed that some of these people weren't exactly smiling. Some, in fact, looked at him with intense caution.

He took the hand of one woman whose companion looked him straight in the eye and said with a frown, "My son came home from school a couple of weeks ago saying you are harboring a monster. Is this true?"

And at that, dread filled his belly.

* * *

Gustave walked in through the doors of his home, stitching his eyebrows and looking down. He walked through the darkened house and found the parlor, and then promptly lit a candle on a side table by the door. He wasn't tired and he wanted to get a head start on some revisions for a performance next week.

However, the moment he lit the candle, he caught a movement from the other side of the room in the corner of his eye. He jumped and gasped, alarmed, and dropped his violin case to the floor. As he whirled and caught a glimpse of what had moved, his heart rate slowed.

Erik, sitting at the piano, staring at him.

Gustave put a hand up to his chest and sighed in relief.

"Very sorry if I startled you, sir," Erik said, and looked down. There was a low, almost monotonous tone to his voice that made Gustave take a step forward, leaving his violin case on the floor.

"It's all right," he said. Even as Erik looked down, Gustave could see an absent look in his eyes. "Why are you awake? It's nearly two in the morning."

Erik nodded.

There was a moment of silence, before Gustave cleared his throat, growing wary. "Is everything all right, son? Why aren't you in your room?"

He looked at him for a moment, and then dropped his gaze down to the piano keys. "I thought, perhaps, I might come in here to play some piano."

"Past midnight?"

Another pause.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Oh, no? Why?"

He didn't respond.

"Erik?" Gustave said. He looked at him with concern, but the tenseness in the boy's frame kept him from stepping any closer. Instead, he put his violin case upright against the wall and took a seat on the couch, watching him in the dim light of the candle.

"I've been having nightmares," he said softly, barely above a whisper.

"Nightmares?" He raised an eyebrow. "About?" But as soon as he asked, he realized. As Erik sat silent for a few more seconds, Gustave said, "That party."

"Yes." He seemed to fold into himself a bit more. "I thought I would be all right. But as the days passed, the thought of it only seemed to worsen. It's like it opened the seal to all the memories I've tried so hard to repress... I've not gotten a good night's sleep in nearly two weeks."

Gustave pursed his lips. He remembered the woman, and subsequent others, who had asked him about "the monster" living with him. As he looked at his surrogate son, hunched over with emotion and exhaustion, he wanted suddenly to find her, slap her across the face, and tell her to mind her damn business. Tell all of them to mind their damn business.

"Perhaps you could try and take something to help you sleep..."

"I've tried that," Erik said, and looked at him. "It didn't work." He shook his head. "You don't have to sit down here with me, sir. You should get rest."

He gave a weak smile. "I don't mind. I'm not too tired."

"I am."

Gustave looked down and exhaled briefly. "I'm very sorry."

"It's not your fault. Thank you, sir."

He looked up again. "For what?"

"For being a part of my life."

Gustave smiled sadly. "And thank you for the same."

Erik nodded, and then after a few moments, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of folded paper. He unfolded it, and then turned on the piano stool and showed it to Gustave. From the distance which he sat, it looked like a letter of some kind.

"This was slipped under the door while you were out at the performance," he said. "I thought the time of night at which it was delivered, and the method as well, was extremely odd and unprofessional. When I saw it was addressed to me, I opened it. And when I read who sent it, the oddness made sense." The corner of his lip turned upward. "It's from Raoul. Apparently he was too eager to wait till morning to deliver this."

Despite the playfulness in his voice, there was a somberness in his eyes that prompted Gustave to ask, "What does it say?"

Erik looked down at the letter and cleared his throat. He read:

"Dear Erik: I am very sorry if you now hate me. I really hope that this is not the case, but I understand if it is. My choice in friends has not been the best, but I can assure you that I have cut all ties with Emil. I would, instead, like to extend an offer of friendship to you. You possess far better qualities than my previous companion. I would also like to know if we will ever be continuing our lessons. You said no, but I would hope you may change your mind. Although I did not particularly enjoy the violin itself, I did enjoy talking with you in between your scolding of my dying cat noises..."

Erik smiled slightly. He continued:

"If not, again, I understand. I hope all is well, and I wanted to tell you again how much I appreciated you coming to my party, as well as your gift. You are good, and did not deserve the way you were treated. If I could take back everything that happened between you and Emil, I would, no matter the cost. What he did was unacceptable. Once again, I apologize deeply. Your friend (I hope), Raoul."

Erik folded the letter, his mouth a thin line.

"That was kind of him," Gustave said.

Erik nodded. "It was. Very kind," he agreed sincerely.

"Are you not going to be giving him lessons anymore, then?"

Gustave had noticed that Erik hadn't been taking on anyone since the incident, but he assumed this was a temporary thing. A break of sorts.

"No. No, I don't think so, sir."

"Not ever?"

Erik's grip on the letter tightened, and he looked at Gustave with pain in his eyes. "I can't do it." He sighed, and got up, walking toward the desk. He picked up a paper that was lying there. "I wrote this in response to him, telling him that the reason I don't want him as a student is not because I hate him, but because right now I feel too anxious to face anyone but you and Christine. I wanted to bring it to his house, and to tell him that I would not mind being on friendly terms with him at all."

The moment Gustave saw tears welling in Erik's eyes, he stood and walked over to him.

"I tried," Erik said shakily, "to go to his house and bring him the letter, but I could barely even make it outside to the _mailbox_. I'm not better than an invalid at this point."

Gustave put a hand on Erik's thin shoulder and looked at him sympathetically as Erik took a deep breath.

"What am I going to do? I can't work..."

"You could write your own compositions, try to sell them," Gustave suggested. "But even if you didn't, I have enough money as it is. You are welcome to live here as long as you live, you know that already."

Erik looked at him with some noticeable relief and affection, and nodded.

"And, of course, when I die, I will split my property and money between you and Christine, so money will never be an issue even if you never work at all."

"I don't want to think about the concept of your death," he said softly. "I'd rather be poor."

Gustave smiled, and gave him a couple of pats on the back. "Listen, if you can write compositions, I can play them. We could get them popularized, and you could make it as a composer. You won't ever even have to leave the house, if that's what you wish."

"I could." He paused, looking down at the letter he had written to Raoul, tracing his signature with the tip of his long forefinger. "Perhaps it will become exceedingly unhealthy, though, never going outside, never speaking to anyone but you and Christine."

"Yes," Gustave said, "perhaps. But perhaps we can work up to it again. We did it once, we can do it again."

Erik looked at him again and nodded. "I hope so."

* * *

Pierre had given Raoul a letter, telling him that Gustave Daaé had dropped it off himself. Raoul, naturally, ripped open the envelope and read the letter addressed from Erik.

So he didn't hate him. But he wouldn't be receiving lessons, either.

When he spoke to Philippe in the living room about this new development, he had simply nodded from his chair and said, "Well, then. We will just have to start looking for a new violin teacher." And then he turned back to his newspaper.

Raoul looked at him in alarm. "No."

"No?" He looked up.

"No. Philippe, _please_. I don't enjoy it."

"Really?" He put the paper on the side table and crossed his arms. "I seem to recall you saying it was going well."

"Yes, because I found Erik interesting. Not violin."

Philippe sighed and picked up his newspaper again, scanning through the pages. "Raoul, I'm sorry, but you have to do something. I can't have you hanging willy-nilly around your friends all day."

"What friends?"

Philippe looked up at him again and stared.

Raoul cleared his throat. "The only friend I technically have left is Meg, and even that is complicated, now that her brother hates me. Erik is no longer taking me as a student, and I don't know Christine well enough to ask to spend time with her."

"So then what do you plan to do with your free time?"

Raoul sat in the chair across from him. "I'll...I don't know. I'll take up painting. I like to doodle, so painting might be much more my speed. Really anything but violin. And I'll try harder with your tutoring. Maybe I'll be let into a college in Paris if I can prove I'm smart enough."

"You failed out of school."

"I won't if I can go again."

Philippe stared at him, his eyebrows stitched, every line in his face pronounced. "Are you lying to get out of violin lessons?"

"No, Philippe, I'm not. I will prove it to you."

"Fine. If you can prove to me that you are an adult, I won't force you to take violin anymore."

"Good. It's a deal."

Philippe's eyes narrowed. "What's changed, Raoul?"

It would take forever to tell him how Emil's influence since they were boys had made him nonchalant about anything that wasn't fun. He'd always thought Emil was chic in his personality and carelessness, but the way Emil had acted lately, the person he revealed himself to be...it made him want to be anything _but_ like him.

In fact, it made him want to be a bit more like Erik. Focused. Studious. Passionate. _Grown-up_.

What had changed, Philippe asked?

"Everything."


	22. Love and Hate

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 22**

 **Love and Hate**

"Look. I found a table. In that corner there."

Emil followed James through the darkened pub, their two other friends Michel and David just behind them. The Saturday night buzz of the bar put Emil in immediately good spirits - and good spirits sounded particularly appetizing. The crude metal candelabras that stood against the walls and hung from the ceiling attempted to put the place in a calming, dulled atmosphere, but the life of the people around him countered it and made the pub exciting. People chatted with the barmaids, clinked their glasses together to toast who-knows-what, and played cards and billiards semi-drunkenly. He was fairly certain he even saw one man pay for a prostitute, and another complete a cocaine deal (probably not for medical use).

Who needed Raoul when he had these kinds of people?

A very pretty and very buxom barmaid approached their table with a smile. She leaned over the table, a lock of her black hair falling from behind her ear. Emil wanted to reach over and touch the lock, and then touch a few more things that belonged to her.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, and her voice was like black velvet. "What can I get for you handsome boys."

"Just a pint, thanks darling," said Emil with a crooked smile. He looked around the table, and found David - by far the youngest and smallest of them - staring at her displayed cleavage. He was as red as the rouge that colored the barmaid's cheeks. James and Michel both ordered a pint as well, but David was apparently too preoccupied.

"Hello, love?" she said, looking at David with amusement.

He snapped out of his reverie and looked at her, his face now paling. "Yes?"

"To drink?" She seemed to be holding back a giggle.

"Oh." He looked immediately flustered. "A-a pint as well, please."

"Of course." She winked and walked away, a smile playing on her lips.

Emil stared at David with a grin. Oh, David. Sweet, innocent, fifteen-year-old David. How he couldn't wait to corrupt him. The poor thing had probably never even seen cleavage, or tasted beer. He, James, and Michel would be sure to change that.

"Mother of all that is holy," whispered Michel. His dark features lit up like the candle on the table. "Did you see her _breasts_?"

"Solid eight," said James. He pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and began shuffling them.

"An eight. Really." Emil raised an eyebrow. "What, exactly, would you rank a ten, then?"

James grinned. David was watching, enraptured, as he deftly moved the cards around gracefully in his hands. "Remember Victoire?"

"Oh, Victoire!" Michel laughed. "I do remember her. That's that locksmith's daughter. Yes, I would definitely rank her a ten."

"Whatever happened with her?" asked Emil. "Did you get anywhere?"

"Oh, yes," he said, looking devilish. He began dealing out cards to the four of them. They had already agreed upon playing a simple game of war. "She has quite a lovely flower."

David's eyes went wide. "You saw...you touched...I mean, she let you..."

"Oh, well," said James, "there wasn't much 'letting' involved. I took her to a party and allowed her to be as liberal as she wanted with the champagne bottle. She had had quite a few drinks in her. She wasn't exactly in a place to consent _or_ refuse."

David paled. "That's not right."

"Oh, hush, David." Emil looked at his cards. "The girl was asking for it."

"Whores get what they deserve." Michel nodded. "Her carelessness with drink, the way she was dressed...she may as well have been wearing a sign that said, 'prostitute'".

David only looked down in discomfort, and Emil frowned. Maybe this protégé was too much like Raoul.

The barmaid soon returned with the four pints of beer, and Emil couldn't help but look at her behind as she walked away.

They began the game, talking and laughing about nothing important, periodically taking sips of their drinks. After about ten minutes of this, Michel nudged Emil, looking alarmed.

"What?" Emil said.

"Isn't that your sister?"

Emil's eyes went wide, and he whirled in his seat to look to where Michel was pointing. Indeed, Meg was walking timidly through the pub, darting her eyes around, most likely looking for Emil. He felt a flare of anger at the various men who were looking at her hungrily. Finally, her eyes met his, and she straightened and beelined for his table.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Giry," James said charmingly. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

She ignored him. There was a fire in her eyes as she looked at Emil. "I need to talk to you."

"Meg, what the Hell are you doing in a pub?" he asked angrily.

"I should ask you the same thing, Emil."

"I am a grown man. This is where grown men spend time with other grown men. You, on the other hand, are a young lady. You're not supposed to be here."

James leaned over to Michel and whispered, "I do love watching dogs and cats fight."

"I'm betting on the cat," Michel responded with a smile, looking at Meg's red-hot stare.

"I can be wherever I please, Emil. You're not the master of me. Now, come outside with me. We need to talk."

"About what?"

"You know what."

Emil felt that he did know, but he and his sister only continued to stare at each other stubbornly.

"How did you find me, Meg?" he asked.

"You and your friends-" she gestured to the other three boys at the table "-talk about this place constantly. It wasn't that wild of a guess."

"Meg, just go home."

"No. Come outside with me."

He let out a dramatic scoff and told James rudely to move. He grabbed his sister's arm and stalked out into the frigid December air. Small flakes of snow were falling from the sky, onto the lamplit cobblestone below.

Emil crossed his arms and stared at her. "All right. You have me. What do you want?"

"It's been a month since that party, Emil," she said, stitching her eyebrows at him. "Rumors about what that violin teacher looks like should have died down. But they haven't they've been _growing_. How is that possible?"

He raised a brow. "Why are you asking me this?"

"I know your talent for spreading nasty gossip," she said. "I know you are responsible. You've been upset about the whole thing for weeks..."

"Wouldn't you be upset?"

"...And now I heard my friends at the Conservatoire talking about 'that monster at the de Chagny party' during dance rehearsal."

"I was called a madman in front of everyone!"

"You deserved it."

He gaped at his traitorous sister, who was sticking her chin out at him. He scoffed again, shook his head with disbelief, and started walking back toward the pub.

"Tell me you have nothing to do with this," she said behind him, "and I will drop the subject and leave you alone.."

Emil whirled on her. "Yes. All right? I had something to do with this. But can you blame me-" he put his hand up to his chest in mock pain- "for talking to my _friends_ about the _trauma_ I endured?"

"What trauma?" she asked him incredulously. "You endured no trauma."

"I did. I had to look at that freak's face for a good five seconds."

"I _seriously_ doubt his face impacts you directly! Imagine what it must be like having to _have_ his face."

" _And then I was called a madman in front of all of Paris's high society_!"

"You _tore_ someone's _clothes_ off!" Her voice was growing shrill.

"It was a mask, Meg!"

"It doesn't matter! Only a madman would invade personal space like that!"

He stood there, seething at her. What right did she have?

"I don't regret it. The world deserves to know if there's a monster living among us."

"I highly doubt he's a monster. Emil..." She took a step toward him. "You are ruining someone's life! Do you understand that?"

He let out a short, harsh laugh, and she stepped back again. "When a policeman cuffs a thief and throws him behind bars, do you say he's ruining his life?"

"But Erik is not a thief, and you are not a policeman!"

"Well, Meg..." he went right up to her, and she took another fearful step back. He could feel his own anger on his features. "I've already sentenced him. And there's no going back now."

* * *

Erik moved the bow of his violin back and forth against the strings. Music was filling the parlor as he stared at the composition that he wrote himself. It was good. Not perfect, but good. He could definitely make some changes to make it better.

He put the neck of the violin and the bow in his right hand, and used his left hand to pick up his quill and adjust the score on the desk.

"That was really beautiful, Erik."

He looked up in surprise to see Christine standing in the doorway, smiling slightly at him, and he couldn't help a smile himself. "Thank you, my love."

It had been a month since they'd told one another they loved each other, it seemed they'd only gotten closer since. They would find moments when Gustave was out of the house to kiss and hold each other. They had no idea how long they were going to keep it from him, but both of them were too frightened to admit it. They had no real idea of how he would react.

He knew, though, if he ever wanted to propose marriage to her - and he wanted nothing more - that he would have to eventually ask for Gustave's permission.

"I'm ready for my lesson, professor," she said playfully, and stepped into the room. Somehow, hearing her call him that with the enticing look she gave him excited him greatly. He grinned, and walked over to her, kissing her forehead.

"Let's get started then," he said softly, and she blushed, nodding.

He absolutely loved the affect he had on her.

He'd worried, initially, that she would retract her love a few days after expressing it. He feared logic would catch up to her, and she would realize she had simply been caught up in the moment. In fact, he worried every morning for a month that she would come to this conclusion, but she never did.

And, after four weeks, he was really, truly starting to believe it.

They settled in, with Erik at the piano and Christine over him, smiling lovingly down at him. It was moments exactly like this one that got him through the day. While going to bed used to be a relaxing event, shutting himself out from the rest of the world where he could read or think, it was now torture. It was lonely and terrifying.

His times with Christine were small, blissful breaks from his dark, solitary confinement.

Erik did breathing exercises with her, as well as vocal exercises, just as they did every day. He played the scales on the piano, and Christine followed along in song. After the scales, he had her sing a song they had picked out, a soprano aria, and they practiced on this song for the entire hour.

She really did have the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard. And he got to mold it! He could barely express how happy it made him.

As their lesson came to an end, Christine sat beside him on the piano stool. Immediately, he put his arms around her and pulled her close, his heart seeming to both slow down and speed up. She relaxed in his embrace, and he buried his masked face into her hair, sighing and closing his eyes.

If he could just...fall asleep with her, maybe the nightmares and exhaustion would go away.

"I love you," she whispered.

He pulled back and looked her in her beautiful blue eyes, feeling his own affection overcome him. "I love you, too. So much."

She smiled and leaned up, and he leaned down and let their lips connect. As he held her hair and her waist, she seemed to play with his bottom lip as they kissed, his top lip still covered by the mask. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she held tight, as if it would hurt to let go.

It was insane, his current life. He was in a continuous loop between Hell and Heaven.

She slowly pulled back, and looked at him with adoration, but he doubted it could match the love in his own eyes.

"I'm going to make some tea, would you like some?" she said softly.

"Yes, please, my love. Thank you." He kissed her cheek.

"All right." She started to stand, and he followed. "Oh! And by the way. I brought in the mail. I think you have a letter."

"I do?" he said, bewildered.

She nodded. "I didn't open it. It's sitting on the kitchen table with the rest of the mail."

He followed her into the kitchen, and as she started the tea, he found the envelope, indeed addressed to him, sitting on the kitchen table. There was, however, no sending address.

Confused, he opened the envelope and read its short contents.

 _Monsieur Beauchene,_

 _Leave Paris._

 _My friend told me who you are. We do not want a monster in our midst. I feel sorry for the woman who was unfortunate enough to birth you._

 _Get out._

It was not signed. He did not recognize the handwriting. His fingers were shaking slightly, only noticeable to him.

"Who was it from?" asked Christine, looking at him as the kettle began to warm on the stove.

"Just a client thanking me for the lessons I used to give him," he said quickly, smiling at her to hide the sudden terror that was overtaking him. "How would you like to drink the tea by the fire?"

She lit up, beaming. "That sounds lovely, Erik."

He went to her and kissed her quickly, before leaving the kitchen and walking into the parlor. Without wasting a moment, he ripped up the letter into small pieces and threw them onto the logs of the fireplace, and then set the logs ablaze, watching as the pieces of written hatred blackened and curled like demon's tendrils.


	23. Christmas Eve

**Kind of a shorter chapter, but next chapter is longer, so no worries!**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 23**

 **Christmas Eve**

"Tomorrow is Christmas... Finally!"

Gustave looked at his smiling daughter and couldn't help a smile in return. They were walking through a string of shops in Paris Christmas Eve day, and it seemed that everyone else in the entire city was _also_ doing their last minute shopping. The sky was a crisp, clear blue above, and the snow twinkled in the afternoon sun. Wreaths were hanging from business doors, and everyone seemed to be in a mixture of delight and anxiety - especially the shop owners.

"I think you'll enjoy my gift," she said, peering into a bakery shop window. "I bought it just yesterday. I didn't know exactly what to get, but when I found it, I had to buy it."

He nodded, and continued walking merrily beside her. "I bought yours yesterday as well."

"I know you bought it yesterday," Christine said, and grinned at him. "You should be more careful about wrapping things in the parlor."

He looked at her in alarm. "You _didn't_ see what it was, did you?"

She waved the thought away. "No, no. Don't worry."

"Good," he said, and watched as she walked ahead toward the candle shop. He'd gotten her a box set of Victor Hugo's works, as they had discussed previously that she would love to read them at some point. He was, of course, a rather controversial author, with radical novels like _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ and _Les Misérables_ , but he had the feeling this would only make her enjoy them more.

He quickened his pace and followed her into the candle shop, the little bell tolling, somehow made more cheerful by the fact that Christmas was only a day away.

He found her at the front of the shop, looking at the holiday themed candles. She was examining a tall white one, laced in black wax a musical score, with the words "Joyeux Noël" across the front. She saw him looking at the candle and smiled down at it.

"Have you picked out a gift for Erik yet?"

"Yes. At the same time I picked out yours."

"I'm thinking he might like this." She picked up the candle and displayed it in her hands. "What do you think, Papa?"

Gustave froze for a moment and stared at her. She frowned.

"What is it?" she said.

He felt a smile start to spread across his lips. She had called him _Papa_.

"What?" she asked with insistence.

"Nothing," he said, but he was still grinning. "I think Erik will love that gift."

As he handed her a few francs to pay for the candle, Gustave felt it was unnecessary for her to have given a physical gift after all. That moment was Christmas present enough.

* * *

As Christine lay in her bed Christmas Eve, she drifted slowly out of her dreamscape to the sensation of a dry mouth. She groaned a little bit, her eyes still closed and her mind still half-asleep. She peeled her eyes open to the light of the moon pouring lightly in through the window. Exhausted, she sat up and reached a heavy arm out to grasp for the cup of water sitting on her beside table. When she brought it to her lips, however, she found it empty.

She groaned again. She must have forgotten to fill it the day before.

Not wanting to get up but also not wanting to go to sleep dehydrated, she got up with a heavy sigh and shivered a bit as her feet touched the cold floor. She lit a candle on her bedside table, still holding the cup, and walked to her bedroom door. She opened it, and jumped at what she found in the candlelight.

Erik was sitting on the floor, leaning on the wall right outside her bedroom. It had to be past midnight, but he was nonetheless wearing day clothes and his mask.

When he saw her looking down at him, he quickly got to his feet.

"Erik?" she whispered, keeping her voice down. She could hear her father snoring very lightly from the room over. "What are you doing on the floor?"

He closed his eyes, and leaned his shoulder against the wall. "I told you I've been having nightmares."

"Yes." She took a step toward him.

He looked at her. "They won't stop. I can't be in my room anymore. I can't sleep, and when I do, all I can see are people staring at me with hatred and fear and disgust..." He sighed, and looked down at the cup in her hand. "Were you going to get some water?"

She nodded.

"Here." He took the cup from her. "I'll get it for you."

She watched, still tired by now deeply concerned, as he left her side and made his way through the darkened hallway toward the stairs. Within minutes he was within the light of the candle again, now with a full cup of water.

"Thank you," she said, taking the water. Quickly, Christine went into her room and placed the candle and the water onto the side table. She came back out to meet Erik, and looked at him, stepping close to him. "Erik, what can I do to help?" She put a hand up to his masked cheek, and he covered it with his own.

"I don't know," he said softly. His long fingers curled around hers.

"What do you feel when you're trying to sleep?" she asked. "My grandfather used to tell me, if I felt like I was about to have a nightmare, to trick myself into feeling happy. To make myself think about something else. It worked."

"I feel lonely." He looked down with a faraway look in his eyes. "As soon as I am by myself, I feel terribly lonely."

"Then..." She brought his hand away from his face. "Picture Papa talking to you. Or me."

He looked at her strangely, but not in a bad way. "Papa?"

She smiled slightly. "Is it so _very_ odd that I call him that now?"

"No. No, I think it's good." Despite this sentiment, his eyes remained sad. "But I have tried that. It doesn't work."

"Imagine me kissing you," she whispered. She pealed his mask off while he watched her, unprotesting. She put her free hand up to his shoulder and he held her, as he brought his face to hers and they were soon in a lip-lock.

He came away after a few seconds, panting slightly, and she beamed. His eyes, though now full of love, remained sad, and her smile disappeared as soon as it had come.

"It doesn't compare, Christine," he said softly, "to the real thing. My mind can tell the difference."

As she stood there, feeling terribly sympathetic toward him, and still wanting to kiss and hold him, an idea took shape in her head. If she hadn't been so affected by their closeness, nor so tired, she may not have spoken her idea out loud.

"What if you spend the night in here," she whispered, looking him in the eye, "with me."

He took a step back, eyes wide, and glanced in the direction of her father's room. Quickly, she reached out a hand to grab his arm.

"No. No, not like that. I don't want to do anything like that. We can just hold each other. That's it. So that you don't feel so alone."

He closed the gap between them again, staring at her intently. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said. "I trust you enough to know you won't try anything out of bounds."

"I would never," he said. There was a wariness to his expression.

She sighed. "I know it's a bit inappropriate. But...it might help."

He nodded. "It might." It wasn't wariness, Christine realized, that was painting his face. It was disbelief. Not disgust in her forwardness, but a look that said, 'someone should pinch me, because I am sure that this cannot actually be happening'.

"Get into more comfortable clothing, then," she said. "I will make some room for you in the bed."

He stared at her for a few moments longer, and then said, almost numbly, "All right."

Christine watched as he turned to walk back into his own bedroom, and then, leaving her door open, she placed the mask next to the cup and candle. As she eyed the cup, she remembered her thirst, and took a long swig of water. Satisfied, she put her two stacked pillows side by side, one for her and one for her new sleeping partner.

She was so glad her father was asleep.

As she smoothed out the blankets, and folded the corner to make it look more inviting, she heard a light knock on the opened door. She turned and saw Erik in nothing but his sleeping clothes, and couldn't suppress a smile at the sight. Erik, usually so poised and almost intimidatingly well-dressed, was barefoot in his nightshirt.

Oh yes. This was definitely the person she loved.

She sat on the far side of the bed and patted the other, inviting him to come in. He gave a tiny, really unnecessary bow, and closed the door of the bedroom, before he walked over to the bed. He waited for her (again) unnecessary signal to lay down before he did so. He waited until she snuggled under the covers before he did so himself.

He glanced to the candle. "May I?"

"Yes, please," she responded.

Soon enough it was dark, the only sound them breathing in the dark. Slowly, she let her fingers find his in the dark, and he gripped them tightly. Then, she shuffled gently a bit toward him, until their legs were touching and she was able to lean her head against his shoulder. As she placed her other hand against his chest, she felt his heart beating rapidly.

She closed her eyes. "Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, my love," he responded, and placed a long kiss against her head.

She lay awake, unable to fall asleep right away. How could she, really, when Erik was so close, underneath the covers with her? After what seemed like ten minutes, she realized his heart rate had evened, and she looked up to his face.

He was fast asleep, his expression serene and content, not a trace of fear or distress to be found.

A smile found its way to her lips, and she kissed his shoulder lightly. "Merry Christmas," she whispered, and closed her eyes again.

* * *

 **Yes, I am well aware that this kind of thing would be looked down upon back then. But I couldn't resist.**


	24. Christmas Gift

**I meant to update this a couple days ago, but I am having some wisdom tooth problems,** **so writing has been at the back of my mind lately. Sorry, all.**

 **Oh! And if anyone wants to hear *exactly* how I picture Erik singing this song, look up "Petit Papa Noel by Josh Groban" and click the youtube link. Seriously, in for a treat :)**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 24**

 **Christmas Gift**

"Oh, Papa, you cannot be serious!"

Christine looked with exasperation at her father as he put up a finger that meant something between "shush" and "hold that thought". He held his plate, full of crumbs, as he grinned and walked out of the parlor.

"Papa!" she called from the couch, "that's enough food for now!"

"But I've only had _two_ pieces of cake!" he shouted from the hall.

Christine rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat, staring at the Christmas tree, beautiful in the light of the candles. She'd been waiting all day to give Gustave and Erik their gifts. Really, it should have happened sooner. But her father had had to give a special Christmas Day performance both in the morning and the afternoon, so she had been forced to watch the clock until evening came.

Erik sat next to her, staring at her with amusement. As per usual, his own food was barely touched, sitting idly on the coffee table.

"You know," he said, "he's only doing this to press your buttons."

"Well, he's succeeding," she muttered.

"When she looked at him, she blushed to find him watching her with blatant affection. She pursed her lips, trying to hide her smile. She felt she annoyance begin to evaporate - and subsequently felt slightly annoyed by _that_.

"What?" she asked softly.

"You are very pretty when annoyed," he said.

She let out a small laugh. "Really."

"Yes." He smiled. "The way your lips pucker. And you're even prettier when caught being annoyed.

Her heart picked up its pace as he lifted a couple of fingers to brush them against her burning cheeks, which only began to burn hotter against his cool fingers.

"I'm glad you like it," she said, "but don't go getting any ideas on how to annoy me just because it pleases you aesthetically."

"Never," he said, and moved his hand to hers. She grasped it without thought.

They stayed like this for a few more moments, as they heard the sound of Gustave fumbling with silverware.

"Christine?" Erik murmured suddenly.

She looked up at him. "Yes?"

There was some guarded emotion in his eyes as he looked at her for a few moments, and then asked, very quietly, "When would you like to tell Gustave about our relationship?"

Christine blinked and raised her eyebrows in surprise. It had been his idea to keep it hidden, after all. Something in Christine told her that he was scared for Gustave to know, that despite everything, he would disapprove of Erik as a suitor.

Which was, of course, utterly ridiculous on multiple levels.

She'd protested at first, but when she saw the pleading in his eyes, she relented.

Her father would find out at some point.

"Oh!" she said. He raised an eyebrow - or what seemed like a raised eyebrow - under the mask. "Well, you know I would be all right with it. Anytime you would like to, we can-"

The sound of footsteps just outside the parlor must have startled Erik, for he jumped slightly in his seat and drew away from her, leaving Christine a bit hurt.

 _Oh well_ , she thought, _apparently today won't be the day_.

Gustave walked in, clutching his third (and hopefully final) piece of fruitcake. He say again in his armchair and began tucking in. "All right," he said, "we can begin presents. Christine, why don't you open mine?"

Immediately brightening, she nodded and leapt from the sofa, and found the parcel. It was the height and width of her forearm, and was wrapped in gold-colored paper and blue ribbon. She sat back in her seat and began, gently, undoing the ribbon and taking apart the wrapping. When she was younger, she might have torn through the paper, but this paper and ribbon was too pretty for carelessness.

As the paper fell away, she saw what was inside: a set of Victor Hugo's works. The top book held the title _Les Misérables_. She had heard of this book; how controversial it was. Painting convicts, prostitutes, and bastards in a sympathetic light. And it was so, so thick! It had to be at least five or six hundred pages.

It was perfect.

She got up and hugged her father tightly just as he was finishing a bite, holding the books under one arm, so that she was giving a sort of pseudo-hug. Nonetheless, she poured affection into it, and Gustave got the message just fine. "Thank you," she added, just for good measure.

He nodded, giving a face-splitting smile. "Of course, Christine."

She sat back down next to Erik and stared at the novels on her lap, specifically _Les Misérables_. How she couldn't wait to open it and begin devouring it.

"Erik," Gustave said, and nodded toward the tree. "Why don't you open up what I got you next?"

Erik smiled and nodded back. "All right, sir. Thank you." He went to the tree and picked up the small box. He brought it to where he sat and began opening up the packaging, careful with it just as Christine was. When it was finally opened, the gift revealed itself to be a beautiful silver fountain pen, the name _Erik_ engraved on the side.

He stared at it with wonder.

"Now that you are writing your own compositions, I thought it might come in handy. Much more convenient than a quill and a bottle of ink."

"It's beautiful," Erik said, gazing down at the object. He looked up at Gustave. "Thank you, sir."

"Anything for you, my son," he responded merrily and stuffed another piece of cake in his mouth. Erik beamed.

The moment Erik put the pen on his lap, Christine bolted to the tree and picked up the gifts that she herself had wrapped, giving one to Erik and one to her father. She asked them to open them, and at Erik's insistence, Gustave put his half-finished plate down and unwrapped his.

It was a two-meter by two-meter map of Sweden. She'd found it while in a pawn shop (and hadn't initially intended to buy him a gift from that shop, but when she saw it, the coloring of the regions and the calligraphic writing so beautiful, she simply had to get it.)

"So that you can remember where you are from," she said.

He smiled down at the map, and when he looked up, she could see tears forming in his eyes.

"Once a Swede," he said, "always a Swede."

At that moment, while she watched him start tearing up at the reminder of where he came from - of where they _both_ came from - she couldn't help but feel an incredible kinship toward him. She clutched her locket for a moment before getting up and walking toward him and wrapping her arms around his neck. He sniffed once and hugged her back, squeezing so hard she felt nearly crushed, the way fathers and grandfathers do.

"I love it," he said, "and I love you."

She grinned, her hand on his shoulder, and then pulled away, saying, "I love you, too, Papa."

Really, it was a rather strong emotion for just a map, but Christine knew better than to think it was only the map making him so emotional. The source of the gift, the sentiment, was what was pushing the tears from his eyes.

She gave his shoulder one last squeeze before she went back to her seat. Gustave wiped his wet eyelids and gestured to Erik. "All right, Erik. Open yours now. I saw her pick this out. I think you'll like it."

Erik gave Christine a sly affectionate glance, so quick and almost undetectable that she would have found it surprising if her father had noticed. He pulled apart the wrapping and then she watched his reaction as he looked at the gift.

He gazed down at the candle the way he often gazed down at Christine, as if imagining she were inside the object. It was hard not to blush as she watched his fingers graze over the wax musical notes or the words, picturing those same fingers brushing through her hair.

He looked up at her once, and then looked back down at the candle, and watched as he traced the words _I love you_ onto some unmarked white space on the candle. She pointed to herself, circled where her heart was, and pointed to him.

Gustave, not noticing any of this (as Christine had anticipated), clapped his hands once. "This was truly a marvelous Christmas. Thank you both for sharing it with me."

Erik looked at him, suddenly alarmed.

"Wait. Wait a moment. I haven't given my gift," he said.

Both Christine and Gustave looked at toward the empty space under the tree in confusion.

"No, I didn't wrap it. That is to say, it's not something that can be wrapped. As you both know, I haven't exactly...been to the store to get you anything physical."

Christine knew what he was going to say was "been out of the apartment", and of course she knew why. This was the reason she was so forgiving upon not seeing any gifts wrapped from him to her.

"Instead," he said, and stood, "I would like to sing a Christmas song as a present to you both."

Christine raised her eyebrows at him, happily surprised. Gustave looked at him warmly.

"Oh, Erik, my boy...you ned not do that if it will make you uncomfortable. Of course I would love to hear it, but not at the expense of your comfort."

"No," Erik said, and began walking toward the piano, "no, I've thought about it. I would like to do it. I trust you both deeply, and I'd like to show that trust."

Gustave smiled and nodded with affection. "Well then. I will be a pleasure." He picked up his cake and began again to eat.

Christine watched Erik lovingly and said, "I can't wait." He looked at her with the same amount of love and bowed his head, to which she reciprocated.

He took a seat on the piano stool, too a deep breath, and then looked up once at them for reassurance. They both nodded their encouragement, and he smiled and began to sing.

 _"C'est la belle nuit de Noel_

 _La neige etend son manteau blanc_

 _Et les yeux leves vers le ciel_

 _A genoux, les petits enfants_

 _Avant de fermer les paupieres_

 _Font une derniere priere..."_

Christine's eyes widened. She'd nearly forgotten how incredibly beautiful his voice was, and how amazed she was when she had heard him singing that night. When she looked at her father, she saw his expression of equal wonder; he must have never heard his voice as he sang before. Truly, it was like listening to an angel.

But, even as he sang, Christine could feel his fear and trepidation. Every so often, he would look up for reassurance, to which she and Gustave would smile, or would have to pause for a second. She couldn't help but marvel at how brave this was of him; singing brought back bad memories, but he wanted to do it to show how much faith he had in them.

* * *

Gustave proclaimed that after they cleaned up, he would be taking a bath and retiring to bed. Christine and Erik, in response, said not to worry about it, that they would clean everything up themselves. Gustave hadn't protested this for very long.

When his footsteps were sufficiently upstairs, Christine flew to the side table of the couch and brought out a small leafy plant. She went to Erik, who was just now picking up Gustave's finished plate, and held it as high as she could over his head. Of course, she wasn't incredibly successful, as he was much taller than her. The best she could do was hold it a few centimeters above his scalp.

He put the plate back down on the coffee table and looked at the plant in confusion.

"What is that?" he asked. Christine giggled at his perplexed expression.

"It's mistletoe," she explained softly. She smiled, still dangling the leaves. "You have to take your mask off and kiss me."

He looked at her with affectionate amusement. "Do I?"

"Yes," she said, and giggled again. "It's the rules."

Erik looked shortly toward the door, but they could hear Gustave safely upstairs, running his bath. Erik looked back at her and smiled, lifting his mask from his face and putting it on the coffee table, and then brought his lips to hers.

At once, they heard the sound of glass breaking and a thud on the floor. Christine pulled away from Erik with a gasp and looked around. The window of the parlor was shattered, a gaping hole torn through it with a spiderweb of cracks rippling off of it. She looked to the floor, and found a stone the size of a fist, a note tied by a string to it.

Erik slowly bent down to pick up the stone and read the note, and Christine saw as terror made itself plain on his face.

"What?" she asked, shaken. "What does it say?"

She reached out a hand and took the stone from him, and read the note:

 _Christmas is a time for Angels, not Devils. Go back to Hell, demon._

Christine, immediately angry, sucked in a breath. She glanced shortly at Erik, who was staring at her with fear, his hands trembling, and then flew from the parlor and out through the front door, intent on facing the terrible soul that did this.

But there was no one in sight. Whoever it was must have run the moment they threw the stone.

She went back into the parlor, seething, and found the stone on the coffee table and Erik on the couch, his face in his hands, hyperventilating.

"Oh, no, Erik," she said softly, her heart breaking a little bit. She went to him, sitting next to him, and took his hands away from his face. He looked frightened beyond belief.

Without wasting a moment, then, she kissed him, hard. She wanted to kiss him to fiercely that he forgot about what was happening, so that he was only focusing on her and her love. It seemed to work. His body relaxed, and his hands found their usual place on her waist and the back of her head.

They were so enraptured in one another, in fact, that they didn't pay attention when Gustave's footsteps flew down the stairs, and he entered into the parlor.

Christine heard a deep gasp, and pulled away from Erik, alarmed. Gustave was staring at Erik's bare face, looking pale. He looked at Christine, and put his hands on the doorframe, as if needing to steady himself.

Erik immediately shielding his face with his hands, his breathing coming in hard again. But it was too late. Gustave had seen him.

Christine bit her lip, looking from Erik to her father, unsure of which topic would be addressed first.

Gustave gulped and looked at Christine in confusion. "You...you and Erik?"

She nodded. Erik, still covering his face, grasped for the mask and brought it up, fastening it as quickly as he could. He then gripped the seat of the couch and looked down, looking petrified and overwhelmed. She could understand that - so many different intense happenings in so short a time. First the stone, then the kiss, and now Gustave had seen everything.

Christine waited for Gustave to mention Erik's face, but he never did. It wasn't that he hadn't seen it - for he definitely had - it seemed more that it didn't matter so much.

"Why didn't you tell me? If there was something going on between you two, why not tell me?"

Christine stared at him. He looked almost hurt.

Erik, next to her, spoke incredibly softly, still staring at the floor. "I'm so sorry, sir. I thought you might not approve." His head sunk lower. "It wasn't right to keep it hidden."

Gustave looked taken aback, still standing in the doorway. "Not approve? Why would I not approve?"

Erik peeked up for just a moment, and looked looked back down. "You just saw..."

"Your face?"

Erik nodded numbly.

"I did. Yes." He looked at Erik as if he were a child again. "I told you once before it wouldn't matter. And...the face...it is a bit of a shock; I won't lie to you. But nothing I can't handle. I don't go back on my word."

At that, Erik finally looked up at him, and kept his gaze there.

"How long has this been happening?" Gustave asked.

"About a month," murmured Christine.

"A month? And nobody told me?" He shook his head. "But...I mean...well, this is actually wonderful!"

Erik and Christine looked at one another shortly, and then Erik looked back at Gustave. "Really?" he asked softly.

"Well, yes! Yes, of course!" Gustave was smiling from ear to ear. "That is simply...but wait." His smile disappeared. "I nearly forgot. I heard a crash. Is everything all right?"

Christine glanced at the window, and then at the rock. Gustave looked with wide eyes to where her gaze had gone, and then went to pick up the stone. He read its contents, and his face was once again pale. He stared at Erik.

"Who did this?"

"We don't know," said Christine. "They were gone before we could see."

"It's directed to me," Erik said softly. "That much is clear. Ever since that party..."

Gustave stared with anger down at the stone. He closed his eyes, seething for a few seconds. Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he looked from Christine to Erik, looking suddenly determined.

"I may have an idea for how to stop this."


	25. Perfect Defense

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter 25**

 **Perfect Defense**

"I still can't completely...you two are really in love?"

The coach began driving forward as Gustave stared at is two children. Erik grasped for Christine's fingers - now that he knew, they could do that - and he nodded. Gustave grinned and shook his head. He moved his gaze to the window, seemingly lost in thought.

"That truly is amazing...and I had no idea!" He looked back toward them, beaming. "This is such a pleasant surprise!"

"I'm very glad you think so, sir," said Erik, a smile on his face.

Gustave looked again out the window as they passed the Paris buildings. His smile began to falter after a few moments, and he drummed his fingers nervously. He sighed. "I do hope this works out for the best."

Erik stared at him, doubting he was talking about their relationship. "It might," he said softly.

"If it doesn't, we will figure something else out," Christine said with optimism, though Erik could still hear some fear in her voice.

They sat in silence then as the coach continued down the Paris street, everyone thinking to themselves but no doubt thinking the same thing.

At last the coach pulled up to the house of the Comte Philippe de Chagny. Gustave, Erik, and Christine left the coach, thanked and paid the driver, and started up the steps to the front door.

Gustave knocked a couple of times, and then all three of them looked at each other with guarded trepidation. At last a servant - Erik recognized him as Pierre - opened the door. He regarded the three of them with surprise.

"Monsieur Daaé, isn't it, sir?" said Pierre in the doorway.

"Yes," he responded. "That's correct. Is the Comte de Chagny at home today?"

"He is, Monsieur." He raised an eyebrow at him. "Is he expecting a visit?"

"No, not exactly. But I do need to speak to him."

"And what might I tell him is the topic of your discussion, sir?"

He pursed his lips before saying, "Tell him...tell him it involves the incident at the party."

Pierre glanced at Erik for a few seconds, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The servant then nodded and said, "Of course, sir. I will inform him straight away."

Pierre then asked them to wait for a moment for his return. When he closed the door, Erik grimaced.

"Something about that man..." he started.

"He's a butler," Gustave explained. "They tend to believe they're more important than they are. Not that they're not important, but they like to pretend that their employers give them some high status they don't have." He chuckled. "In fact, I remember Judge Falk had this one servant, Hans, who was-"

His eyes widened as he stopped short, and looked at Christine with an apologetic look on his face.

"It's all right," she said with a slight smile, though it was clear that the mention of it brought back sad memories. "He worked there till the day my grandfather died. I remember him, too. And I agree wholeheartedly."

At last, Pierre returned. He opened the door and made way for them to enter. "Master Philippe is waiting for you in the sitting room."

Gustave nodded, and he, Erik, and Christine followed Pierre into the mentioned room. In the sitting room, Philippe was resting in an armchair, a book opened on his lap. Raoul was standing in front of an easel, and Erik could only guess that he was painting, though what he had no idea. The moment the brothers saw their guests, they left their respective activities behind and went to greet them.

"Monsieur Daaé, sir," Pierre said to Philippe, giving a little bow.

"And Christine Daaé and Erik Beauchene," Philippe finished with a small smile. "Yes, I know." He shook the hands of Gustave and Erik, and gave Christine a low bow of his head. Christine reciprocated.

Raoul simply stood beside his brother, giving Erik a nervous smile. Erik felt guilty. No doubt Raoul still had lingering feelings of wariness around him, even though he told him he did not, in any way, hate him. Raoul also smiled at Christine, who gave a reassuring smile back.

"Pierre, why don't you get the five of us some English tea? Could you?" said Philippe.

"Of course, sir." Pierre bowed and exited the room.

"Now," Philippe continued, settling into his chair and looking at Gustave. "My servant tells me you wished to discuss the incident at the party. I presume you mean the one regarding the Giry boy."

Gustave nodded. Erik looked at Raoul, who pursed his lips.

"Well, then," Philippe said. He gestured to the seats around the room, and his three guests obligingly sat on the sofas. "Go on."

He and Raoul sat next to one another, and he put his attention on Gustave.

Gustave began. "Ever since that party, there have been rumors."

"Rumors?" Raoul stared at him in fear.

"Yes. People are believing what Emil said about Erik."

"They shouldn't." Philippe crossed his arms disapprovingly. "I doubt they are true, the things that boy was saying. People can be so daft sometimes."

"Well," said Gustave, "I am glad you don't believe them."

"Of course I don't!" Philippe looked beside himself. "The things Emil was describing...well, you should have heard it! Absolutely monstrous! Wasn't it, Raoul?"

Erik's face heated, and he watched as Raoul looked uncomfortably at his brother and then to Erik.

"Well," he said meekly, "perhaps not _monstrous_ , per se, but..."

"And what's more," Philippe continued, and Raoul sighed in relief at having been cut off, "Emil never sat right with me. I always knew he was a negative influence on Raoul here, and it turns out I was right. Ever since he stopped spending time with that boy, he's been acting much more responsibly." He leaned back in his chair, now watching Erik. "Truth be told, I always assumed the mask was some kind of odd fashion accessory, or for aesthetic reasons...or perhaps a marketing ploy. You know...'be taught by the masked teacher'..." He looked again at Gustave. "It seemed strange, but also seemed most likely, as I knew there could be nothing wrong with him if you were his mentor. But now Raoul here tells me he is simply covering up a burn from a childhood accident."

Erik whipped his gaze to Raoul, who blushed and mouthed the words, 'I'm sorry'. Erik, surprised, quickly mouthed, 'No. Thank you'. Raoul blinked, clearly not expecting this, and smiled.

"A burn?" repeated Gustave.

"Why, yes," said Philippe. He raised an eyebrow. "Is that not the case after all?"

"It is," Christine piped in. "Yes. A fireplace accident. Erik's whole house...his family...he was left orphaned. My father took him in when he found him. They were family friends, of course. He is only surprised that you know because he didn't realize Erik had talked to anyone about it. Sensitive topic, you know."

"Oh!" exclaimed Philippe. Erik put his head down in mock grievance, and Gustave nodded, looking sorrowful, but now before he gave her a brief look that said, 'good thinking'. "Well, of course, it's a sensitive topic. I'm terribly sorry." Philippe looked embarrassed. He directed an angry look at Raoul. "Raoul, if it was told to you in confidence, you did not have to tell me."

Raoul looked bewildered. "Oh! I, er, sorry. I..."

"It's all right," said Erik somberly, "I don't mind if you know. I'd rather you believe the truth than believe I have the face of a monster."

In the corner of his eye, he caught Christine glancing at him sadly.

"Of course." Philippe looked at him with sympathy. He cleared his throat. "Now, Monsieur Daaé, back on topic. You said there are rumors."

"Yes," he responded. "I was hoping you could help somehow."

Just then, Pierre returned with five cups of tea, and left them on the coffee table. He left as soon as he bowed to them.

"Thank you Pierre," said Philippe. He picked up a cup, and everyone followed. "Well, I can do what I can. How exactly were you hoping I could help?"

Gustave took a sip of the tea. "Monsieur de Chagny," he said, and put the cup down, "it is no secret that your opinion is respected in Parisian society."

"Thank you."

"I was hoping, then, that you might help us in publicly telling the truth about Erik. Perhaps put out a statement of some kind."

Philippe raised his eyebrows. "Like in a newspaper?"

"Perhaps. If that would be possible."

Philippe tapped on his cup a couple of times, thinking. "It would be possible. I have a regular opinion column in one of the more prominent newsletters. If you think it might help, I could put something together."

Gustave looked at him in grateful surprise. "Thank you. This means very much; more than I could tell you. I would be willing to pay you to do this, if you should wish."

"No, no. That won't be necessary. I should hate for my reputation to be tarnished; I would want someone to do the same for me."

At that, Erik looked at Christine, and they shared a look of hope. Maybe, just maybe, some of this could be salvaged after all.


End file.
